


The Holiday

by Scriblit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure of the Devil's Foot, Adventure of the Illustrious Client, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:26:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scriblit/pseuds/Scriblit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A month following an horrific, sadistic attack during a case, Sherlock is still physically incapacitated and emotionally damaged. A holiday is suggested, but even stuck out in the middle of nowhere, he and John happen upon a case that could make Sherlock begin to feel like his old self again - or could kill him.</p><p>BBC Sherlock Reworking of ACD's Devil's Foot, with Illustrious Client in flashbacks. Scenes of violence and implied "off screen" sexual violence/sexual assault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Sherlock S3 throughout. This story takes place a few months after His Last Vow.

The Holiday

-x-

The message was the same on the website, the voicemail and the email autoreplies. It didn’t stop people contacting him. After a long rant down the phone about how bloody obtuse the general public were, he got John to put the message up on his blog as well, which at least limited the calls he got considerably after that. It was a simple enough message – he really shouldn’t have to labour the point. 

‘Due to recent personal circumstances, Sherlock Holmes regrets that he is not taking on any new clients or cases at present. Kindly go away.’

-x-

They’d said at the hospital that it would be better to get Sherlock seeing a qualified physiotherapist, which Sherlock obviously ignored, as he ignored John’s protestations that he was just a GP and not the best person to give practical physio. John had ended up doing a lot of research very fast to become enough of an expert in physiotherapy to muddle through the task in hand. But then, hadn’t that always been the way? A ‘mysterious benefactor’ – clearly Mycroft – was putting a generous paycheque into his account for the hours he’d dropped down at the clinic to help Sherlock with his rehabilitation. 

Not nannying – he wasn’t nannying. It was physio. And besides, spending three afternoons a week with his best friend was… “nice” wasn’t the word. “Needed”, that was the word. It wasn’t nice. Not yet. Not in these circumstances. It would be nice when Sherlock was better. Only, it was taking Sherlock longer than John had been expecting to get better, this time.

Mrs Hudson, as usual, opened the door to him when he knocked. Sherlock had never been one for answering his own front door as it was, but after last month… well.

‘Hello John.’ Same smile – part welcoming, part concerned. ‘Come on up, he’s expecting you.’

‘How’s he been over the weekend?’ asked John, following his former landlady up the stairs.

Mrs Hudson shrugged. ‘Same as last week. At least he hasn’t had another turn for the worse, so there’s that.’ She knocked on the door to flat B. ‘Coo-coo? Sherlock? John’s here.’

‘All right,’ came a muted voice from beyond. There was a pause, then the sound of a mortice lock and door chain being undone, followed by the latch that had, once upon a time, sufficed. Sherlock opened the door.

Even though John was seeing him three times a week and was used to Sherlock going through phases of suddenly losing a lot of weight, the gauntness of the man these days still caught him off guard a little. Sherlock’s left arm was out of its sling now at least, but the broken fingers were still taped, leaving his left hand largely useless, and his right hand still needed to hold a crutch so that he could walk with his fractured tibia in a brace. He still held himself in a way that betrayed the fact that his three cracked ribs had to be causing him considerable pain. At least you couldn’t tell about the teeth he’d lost any more. The dentist had done a marvellous job. Had to still hurt to eat, though. If he was so much as trying to.

‘All right?’ asked John, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary.

‘I’m OK,’ replied Sherlock, also in spite of all the above evidence. ‘Come in.’ He turned on his crutch and limped through to the living room.

Mrs Hudson came through with them, doing up all the locks to 221b behind her, on autopilot. ‘I’ll make us some tea. And you should have some soup, Sherlock.’

‘Just tea for me, thanks.’ Sherlock slowly manoeuvred his self into his chair.

‘You’re having soup,’ chorused Mrs Hudson and John. Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

‘Good weekend?’

‘Mmff. You? How are the Watson Ladies?’

‘They’re fine. One of them projectile vomited on me at 4.30 this morning – I’ll let you deduce which.’

‘It’s a trouble with new mothers,’ said Sherlock. ‘They’re not used to drinking any more, turn into a bunch of lightweights.’

‘Says you.’ John smiled faintly.

‘I’m not a lightweight. If somebody hadn’t been spiking my drink on your stag night…’

‘And if somebody hadn’t made drink spiking a norm for this friendship…’

That brought out a genuine smile, at least. John grinned back. Since the attack, those moments were like short bursts of sunshine through slate-grey clouds. Sherlock rumbled a little laugh, his complaining ribs caused the smile to twist into a grimace, and the sunshine was gone again.

‘Let’s get to business then, shall we?’ asked Sherlock, getting up again with difficulty. ‘Exercises, exercises. Watch me do my exercises.’

John started getting out the equipment. ‘You been practicing?’

‘Mmhmm.’

‘And what about the rest?’

‘What about the rest?’

‘What we were talking about on Friday,’ John replied. ‘The rehabilitation isn’t meant to just be physical. Did you go to that support group I found for you?’

‘Yes of course I did,’ sighed Sherlock. ‘We all had a big cry in a circle and a biscuit and that made everything magically better.’

‘Your shoes and coat are still exactly where they were this time last week. You haven’t been out of the flat at all.’

‘Oh, everyone’s a detective now, are they?’

‘Sherlock. It’s been five weeks. We all know that this…’ he indicated around the stuffy, darkened flat ‘isn’t one of your usual down periods or black moods. This is what can happen when somebody gets… gets put through what you got put through.’

‘Oh, for crying out loud.’

John jabbed a thumb at himself. ‘I got shot in the shoulder, and I’ve been seeing a therapist on and off for years, although the occasionally life threatening adventures with the frankly barking best mate might have added a bit of fuel to that. Over the past six months you’ve been shot in the chest, very nearly died; escaped from hospital like an idiot and nearly died again; you…’ he trailed off slightly, remembering Mrs Hudson in the kitchen. ‘There was that unpleasantness on Christmas Day; a man who you saw blow his own brains out is somehow back and as obsessed with you as ever and then – then came the Gruner case. You, mate, have had a frankly shit half a year, and it’s taken its toll, and I think you really, really need to speak to somebody who can help you get over it.’

‘Isn’t that what I’m doing right now?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Physical rehabilitation. That’s what I need to get over what happened.’ Sherlock stared at John, his face crumpling into an expression of mock pity. ‘Oh, bless. You think I’ve got PTSD, don’t you?’

‘No. I know full bloody well you’ve got PTSD. We’re in full Takes One To Know One territory, here.’

‘No.’

‘You don’t go out. You won’t take on new cases. You barely so much as answer the phone. You’ve turned the flat into fort knox…’

‘That’s not a psychological response, John. That’s practical. How am I supposed to do anything like this?’ Sherlock motioned up and down his injured body. ‘The transport is broken, and needs to be fixed before I can get my business up and running again, that’s all. I can’t take on a case in this state. And I certainly can’t defend myself like this, I think that was made perfectly clear last month.’

‘Sherlock Holmes,’ clucked Mrs Hudson from the kitchen, ‘for the last time, flowers go in a vase, not in the bin.’ She brandished a rather unhappy looking clutch of red roses at him. ‘He gets sent lovely roses from his fans, John, and just throws them all away.’

‘I’ve never been one for romantic sentiment, Mrs Hudson. The past month’s done nothing to change that.

‘Horrible, ungrateful boy. They’re only wishing you their best.’

‘You have them, then, if you’re so fond of them.’

‘I don’t want them,’ Mrs Hudson exclaimed. ‘They’ve been in the bin!’

‘Will you go to the group?’ John asked.

‘Er, no.’

‘If I find you a therapist for private sessions, will you call them?’

‘Nope.’

‘Will you do something, Sherlock? Just… something? Anything other than just sitting alone in your flat all day, not even being able to play your violin.’ He paused, wondering whether to verbalise what they both already knew. ‘Knowing that he broke your fingers specifically so that you wouldn’t be able to play your violin…’

‘My brother’s not paying you to babble,’ snapped Sherlock. ‘Shall we get on with the exercises now, or must I endure another twenty minutes of bloody small talk?’

‘Fine,’ said John. ‘Fine. If it’ll give you something to concentrate on, then exercises it is.’

-x-

Another week went past.

‘A holiday,’ came a voice past John’s shoulder as he was walking towards Baker St tube station, ‘wouldn’t you say?’

John stopped, and turned back towards the anonymous businessman who stepped away from the wall, folded away his copy of The Telegraph and became recognisable as Mycroft Holmes.

‘Beg pardon?’

‘Being stuck in London is getting poor Sherlock down.’

‘No,’ said John. ‘Gruner’s getting Sherlock down. Getting flung around like a rag doll by him and his lackeys, and the justice system he’s supposed to be working for ending up letting Gruner walk away from it, is getting Sherlock down. The fact that he got attacked where he lives and works, destroying his concept of a safe place, is getting him down. The fact that Gruner’s still out there somewhere and could just waltz in at any point and make good on his threats is getting Sherlock down. Being stuck in London’s not really the issue, here.’

‘But being stuck in London isn’t helping, at least.’

‘No,’ conceded John. ‘It’s not.’

‘Very good,’ said Mycroft, his smile like a razor cutting through soft clay. 

‘Are you going to get that bastard?’ Asked John.

‘Gruner?’ Mycroft quirked a brow. ‘We had him once, Dr Watson, but my brother demanded we did things by the book.’

‘Yeah, well. I wonder who it was who instilled the fear of God into him for doing things that way, recently.’

‘Au contraire, my good Doctor. Sherlock’s intervention with regards to Gruner wasn’t about me, or the sticky end of The Dane. It was about him, and Miss Winter settling things on their own terms.’

‘Pity it didn’t work.’ John paused. ‘Three hours. Just three hours in a locked room with him, me and the Missis. Go on. You arrange the meeting, we arrange a babysitter, we’ll pull that scumbag inside out.’

‘I have no doubt that you would. And, as willing as I was to give you and Mrs Watson that particular evening out at the time, the matter is now out of our hands. All we can do in the mean time is assist my brother in the speediest of recoveries.’ He flashed a second razor grin. ‘Make yourself available for next week, won’t you?’ He got into a car that John hadn’t even realised had been idling, and was swiftly lost in the traffic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Homophobic & Misogynistic language in this chapter.

_Six Weeks Earlier…_

_TO: Sherlock Holmes  
FROM: AngelaWinterPhotos_

_Hello. Hope you don’t mind me getting in touch. I read online that you were investigating Richard Gruner and wondered if I could be of any help. We were seeing each other for a bit. I’ve got some information that could be useful._

_TO: AngelaWinterPhotos  
FROM: Sherlock Holmes_

_Your sources are clearly a little confused. I’m not currently investigating Gruner, I’m just in contact with his fiancée as a favour to a friend. That said, I may yet be interested in your information. Is there a price you have in mind?_

_TO: Sherlock Holmes  
FROM: AngelaWinterPhotos_

_All I want is him stopped.  
If it keeps him from marrying into even more money, that’s a start. But you might want to start an investigation after you’ve heard what I know._

_TO: AngelaWinterPhotos  
FROM: Sherlock Holmes_

_Oh, I like you.  
Let’s arrange a meeting._

 

-x-

Sherlock pressed his face against the rain-spattered car window. ‘Are we nearly there, yet?’

‘We’ve been driving for 40 minutes,’ replied John. ‘No, we are not nearly there yet.’

’40 minutes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes.’

’How much further?’

‘Four hours,’ said John through gritted teeth.

‘Why do we even have to go on holiday?’ Sherlock grumbled.

‘Rest cure. Doctor’s orders. Or rather, Brother’s orders to Doctor to give orders.’

‘So why is Lestrade here?’

‘Also under order,’ said Lestrade, at the wheel. ‘You do have a tendency to need backup.’

‘I’m not going to need the cavalry on holiday in the West Country.’

‘What happened the last time you went on holiday in the West Country, Sherlock?’

‘That was not a holiday, that was a case.’

‘And what happened?’

Sherlock sighed. ‘Hallucinogenic Fear Drugs and a massive black dog.’

‘And did you need the cavalry?’

‘Little bit.’

‘Well, there you go, then.’

‘But why is Molly here?’

‘Oh, I’ve been brought samples from you for weeks now,’ said Molly, from the back seat. ‘Making sure you’ve only been taking the painkillers you’re prescribed. The amount of morphine you’ve needed the past few months, it would be easy for you to have another slip, and I can’t exactly monitor you from Bart’s if you’re not in London.’

Sherlock scowled. ‘How much is Mycroft paying you two?’

‘I’m getting a new kitchen fitted,’ grinned Lestrade.

‘And I’m spending next Christmas in Antigua,’ added Molly.

‘Fair enough,’ Sherlock muttered. ‘But why’s Mrs Hudson coming?’

‘There was a free seat going in the car,’ Mrs Hudson told him, ‘and I’ve never been to this part of Cornwall before. I want to see Land’s End.’

Sherlock made no reply for a while; the hushed, regular swish of the windscreen wipers punctuating the drone of the car engine and the sound of wet tarmac flying by beneath them like a metronome.

‘You should have just hired a minibus,’ said Sherlock, eventually. ‘Mary and Willamina could have come along too.’

‘My daughter’s name is not Willamina!’

‘Well, you’re not calling her Phyllis.’

‘We already did. Four months ago. This conversation is closed.’

‘So you’re just leaving your wife with a four month old daughter that you saddled with a horrible name while you go off on a Jolly?’

‘One – Phyllis Watson is from a book… a book that I haven’t read, admittedly, but Mary loves it…’

‘The Big Bumper Book of Horrible Baby Names?’

‘And two – William…’

‘Hamish.’

‘Sherlock.’

‘Hamish squared.’

‘Scott.’

‘Hamish times infinity. No comebacks.’

‘So, you are not one to talk about silly names.’

‘Hamish Hamish Hamish.’

‘I think Phyllis is a lovely name,’ added Mrs Hudson. ‘I used to go to school with a Phyllis.’

‘I’m not abandoning Mary and Phyl,’ added John. ‘Mary’s been wanting the chance to go and see Janine’s new place for ages, so they’re going to go down there, have as girly and self indulgent a week as you can have when you’re still feeding a baby every four to six hours.’

‘Janine?’ asked Sherlock. ‘Really?’ He stared out of the car window again. ‘Makes sense, she was hit from behind, fell forwards to cut her head on the desk, wouldn’t have known, why would she imagine for a second…’

‘Eh?’ said Lestrade.

‘Nothing. It’s just a little bit awkward what with his wife still being good friends with my ex fiancée.’

‘And whose fault is that, Sherlock?’ asked Mrs Hudson. ‘She was such a lovely girl. Full of fun. All that giggling I’d hear when she was in.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered Molly, pinking a little.

‘Did you really have her wear the hat?’ added Lestrade.

The atmosphere inside the car suddenly chilled.

‘Shit,’ muttered Lestrade. ‘Sorry. I was just. You know. Trying to keep things light.’

‘Yeah, well,’ said John, ‘let’s just watch what we say, OK?’

‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ said Sherlock, ‘if there’s one thing guaranteed not to make me feel any better, it’s everybody tiptoeing around me. I didn’t mind the tabloid stuff, it was just silly. I dated a woman for a month and proposed to her in order to break in to an office – ridiculous, manipulative and humiliating for her, and she responded in kind. You can still laugh at it, just as you can laugh at the stuff John blogged about the Woman. The moment I’m treated as if I’m made of porcelain is the moment I’m treated as if I’m not human. And I’m not having any of that.’

There was another pause. Behind him, Mrs Hudson leaned forward to give Sherlock’s shoulder a little squeeze.

‘Ow,’ grumbled Sherlock.

John stared out at the rain. ‘Are we nearly there, yet?

-x-  
 _  
‘Mr Gruner, I think you know why we’re here.’_

_‘My private life is my own, Mr Holmes. I wish the same could be said of yours.’_

_‘How much is Miss de Merville’s estate worth, again?’_

_‘How many times a night did you fuck that Irish bitch again, Mr Holmes? Six? Seven? Give me a moment. I’ll look it up.’_

_‘You’ve been married before, of course. Such a tragic, sudden end.’_

_‘Says here, seven.’_

_‘So violent.’_

_‘I mean, obviously that’s bullshit, isn’t it, Mr Holmes.’_

_‘Could you tell me about your collections, Mr Gruner?’_

_‘How anyone could have bought that you’re into pussy is beyond me.’_

_‘Do you have any private collections?’_

_‘Are you a cock sucker, Mr Holmes?’_

_‘You’re not answering my questions.’_

_‘And you’re not answering mine. Do you suck cock? Nice lips, quick tongue, oh, I bet you’re heaven.’_

_‘Perhaps we should speak with your fiancée instead, Mr Gruner.’_

_‘Go ahead. You’ll find her most skilled in the rejection of any criticism of my character. Are you skilled, Mr Holmes?’_

_‘Good afternoon, Mr Gruner.’_

_‘Is he skilled, Dr Watson? Is he heaven? Is it like having a lady do it, with all that frouffy hair? Does Mrs Watson not approve, or does she like to watch?’_

_‘It was lovely chatting with you.’_

_‘I’ll do you a deal, Mr Holmes. I’ll tell you about my collections. If you suck my cock. Because let’s face it, I’m searching here for what sort of bargaining chip you could possibly have brought to this frankly hilarious meeting, and right now, that’s the only thing that’s coming to mind.’_

_‘Good afternoon.’_

_‘No? My fiancée wouldn’t like it, you could have taken pictures and used them against me. Oh, well. You take care of yourself, Mr Holmes. Don’t want to end up like Brown, do you?’_

_‘Brown?’_

_‘Francis Brown. That was his name, wasn’t it? P.I. - Manchester based. You did know him, didn’t you?’_

_‘A good man. Had I been available when he went missing, I might have....’_

_‘Never did find a body or anything, did they? Tut tut. Hope he didn’t meet a violent end. He was a faggot as well, you know. And, the trouble is, people just don’t like nasty little queers poking their noses into decent people’s personal relationships. They lash out. You can see yourselves out.’_

-x-

It was getting dark by the time they arrived at the Poldhu Bay cottage – not that it was particularly easy to tell, since the sky had been dark with rain all day. The cottage stood on the jagged cliff overlooking the crescent bay like a single, off-white tooth jutting out of a bony jaw. The travellers got out of the car and were immediately attacked by a strong gust of wind, spattering rain and seawater sideways into hair and faces, down collars and up sleeves.

‘Well,’ exclaimed Sherlock, the wind clearly attempting to make his hair do its best Robert Smith impression. ‘Isn’t this jolly?’

‘I don’t know whose idea of “getting away from it all” this was,’ said Mrs Hudson, struggling to keep her coat pulled about herself.

‘I do,’ replied Sherlock. ‘Rule number one of going on holiday – never let my bloody brother do any of the booking.’

John got out the key that Mycroft had sent him. ‘It’ll be better once we get indoors.’

In fairness, it was better indoors. It was cold and draughty and the window panes rattled and there was a distinct smell of damp about the whole place, but at least it wasn’t raining inside.

‘It’s fine, it’s fine.’ John read through the visitor information sheet. ‘Just need to stick the heating on for a bit. There’s a Tesco Express at Tredannick Wollas, five minutes along the road…’

‘Which is good, because there’s no tea or coffee,’ called Lestrade from the kitchen.

‘Or loo roll,’ added Molly, coming down from the bathroom, ‘and I’m nearly out of Kleenex, now.’

‘Housekeeper comes round in the morning, apparently,’ added John, continuing to read.

‘Ooh, a housekeeper,’ breathed Mrs Hudson, examining the ground floor. ‘Ooh! An Aga! Oh, I might bake something for pudding. I’ve always wanted to use an Aga.’

‘Well, somebody’s having a nice holiday already at least,’ grumbled Sherlock, slowly settling into a threadbare sofa.

‘I could bake my spiced loaf cake.’

Sherlock turned his head to Mrs Hudson, quizzically. ‘You sure? Considering?’

‘We’re on holiday. And you like it.’

‘I do like it.’

‘Then, I’ll bake one.’

‘Oh that sounds nice,’ said Molly, before turning fretfully to John. ‘Sorry. John? There’s only two bedrooms.’

John started bounding up the stairs. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Mycroft Holmes…’

Sherlock sighed. ‘I hope you’ve brought plenty of spices, Mrs Hudson. We are going to need a lot of cake.’


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for "off screen" violence and implied sexual assaults in this chapter.

_Victoria de Merville sat cross-legged and regarded them coolly. She had chosen a high stool for herself and offered the three of them a saggy sofa opposite her to squeeze into together. The effect was that of a disapproving headmistress waiting to hear a set of excuses from a trio of naughty schoolchildren. Between John and Sherlock was stuffed Angela Winter, a photographer in her late 20s with a particularly striking shock of brightly dyed curls that swept up and then tumbled down over the left side of a pretty, but tired looking face, and Sherlock was determined that she do most of the talking._

_‘Who even is this?’ Victoria demanded._

_‘Angela Winter,’ said Angela. ‘I’ve got a little photo studio in Brixton. But when me and Richard – your Richard – were seeing each other, I was a Glamour Model.’_

_‘And that’s supposed to put me off marrying him, is it? That’s really the best you could do, Mr Holmes? I know he went through a phase of seeing loose women, he told me all about it. He was heartbroken after his wife died, went to pieces. Fell in to a string of loveless encounters with cheap, nasty little gold diggers, before I turned his life around again. Are we done?’_

_‘No, we’re not done.’ Angela got to her feet. ‘You don’t understand, Miss de Merville. It’s not me that’s the problem, here.’_

_‘Sit down, dear.’_

_‘It’s him. He’s got this collection.’_

_‘He has lots of collections. He’s an art dealer.’_

_‘This isn’t art.’ Angela’s eyes were bright with rage. ‘It’s people. He collects people.’_

_‘What on earth?’_

_‘He’s got this one external hard drive. Keeps it hidden away. That’s where he keeps his secret collection. These videos. And it’s sick. It’s just sick. Him and these two big blokes in pig masks, and then the person that they’re doing stuff to. It’s always someone different. Usually women, but not always.’_

_‘And you’ve seen these videos, have you?’_

_Angela nodded. ‘He showed it me. He was trying to get me to do it. Said all the people were girlfriends or picked up in bars, that it was all consensual, just play acting, just a bit of a laugh. But, the looks on those people’s faces. The stuff the pig men were screaming at them, the threats… some of them are covered in blood and bruises. The things he has them do. They’re always in tears by the end, or throwing up, or messing themselves. It’s horrible. So, I said no. I wouldn’t do it.’ Angela blinked up at the ceiling, clearly trying her best not to cry. ‘And he went apeshit. That’s when he did this.’ She pulled the bright torrent of curls away from the side of her face, and turned her head so that everybody could see the scar that ran down her left cheek. ‘Used a kitchen knife. Cut my breast as well, you’ll excuse me for not showing you that. Did it so that I wouldn’t be able to model any more. I’m begging you. Victoria. Don’t marry this man. Get as far away from him as you can. He’s a sadist. He’ll take everything you have and he’ll get off on doing it.’_

_Victoria scoffed. ‘This is pathetic. Mr Holmes, I thought you were supposed to be a world class investigator – did it not occur to you to ask this girl if what she’s saying is true, why she didn’t report Richard to the police?’_

_‘I was terrified of him! He said he’d kill me, that he’d done snuff films before and he’d do one again. Said the police wouldn’t believe me anyway, that he’d tell them I’d gone through a glass door when I was drunk. Said he’d happily throw me through a glass door there and then to back that up.’_

_‘And suddenly, magically, you’re not frightened of him any more.’_

_‘No, I’m still shit scared of your fiancé, Victoria. Time doesn’t make the fear go away, but it gives the anger time to simmer. And the concern for his next victim to flourish.’_

_‘Oh, of course. You’re doing this out of sisterly concern, and not angry, bitter jealousy that the best man you ever dated has finally managed to drag himself back out of the gutter that found you in.’_

_‘We’re trying to help you, Victoria,’ said Sherlock._

_‘No, you’re not. You and your sidekick are doing this because you’re getting paid to. And that’s almost as sad as she is. I think it’s time for you and your saggy Page 3 Girl to leave, now.’_

_Angela took a step towards Victoria as John and Sherlock got to their feet. ‘Why won’t you listen to us? Your stuck-up attitude’s going to get you killed, don’t you realise that?’_

_‘Are you threatening me?’_

_‘It’s not a threat. It’s a very real warning. You stupid, arrogant bitch…’_

_‘Get out! I won’t be talked to like that by some jumped-up tart!’ Sherlock and John were already hurrying Angela towards the door as Victoria called after them. ‘Get out of here before I call the police!’_

-x-

There was an open fire at least, although it took a while to get going because of the damp. Still, it changed the atmosphere on entering the cottage the second time considerably for Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade as they got back from the Tesco.

‘Ooh, that’s better,’ said Mrs Hudson. ‘I do like a proper fire.’

‘You ensured that there would be a functioning open fireplace in an Inner London flat that you were renting out,’ said Sherlock, from the same spot on the sofa as they’d left him in. ‘I don’t think it’s going to come as a surprise to anybody that you “like a proper fire”.’

‘Did you manage to get the Aga going as well, John?’ asked Mrs Hudson, ignoring Sherlock.

‘Yep.’ John practically pounced on the tea bags as Greg unpacked them. ‘Now. Sleeping arrangements. Turns out, it’s two twin bedrooms and a fold-out sofa bed in the living room.’

‘Oh, us girls can share a twin,’ said Mrs Hudson, indicating between herself and Molly. 

Molly nodded in agreement. ‘Although I’m afraid I’ve already had to commandeer the dressing table for my equipment.’

‘I’ve lived in the same building as Sherlock Holmes for years now, Molly dear – I’m used to that sort of thing.’

‘And you look pretty comfy on the sofa there, Sherlock,’ added Greg. ‘It’ll probably be easier than tackling the stairs, with your leg…’

Sherlock just glared over the back of the sofa at Greg.

‘Although it’s important that you get plenty of rest,’ Greg continued, ‘and if the last year of my marriage got me used to anything, it was sleeping on the sofa.’

‘Fine,’ said John, putting on the kettle with a particular sense of urgency. ‘Looks like I’m sharing with Sir Talks-In-His-Sleep-A-Lot, then.’

‘I don’t talk in my sleep.’ Sherlock prodded at the fire.

‘You bloody do,’ said his former flatmate.

‘You do,’ agreed his downstairs neighbour.

‘You do, Sherlock,’ chimed in the woman whose flat he occasionally crashed at.

‘You really do,’ said the man who’d once spent three hours in a traffic jam with Sherlock Holmes fast asleep on his shoulder after a 4-day chase around Hertsfordshire for a serial fraudster.

‘What’s the village like?’ asked Molly.

‘Er… it’s quite pretty, I suppose,’ Mrs Hudson said. ‘In a bleak, Brontëish sort of a way. The people are a bit… glum. Aren’t they?’

‘The cashiers were having this talk about Demonic Possession the whole time we were there,’ Greg added. ‘Something about a local family. You know – they don’t have to oversell the whole Gothic thing to us, we’re already holidaying at the Hammer House of Horrors.’

A gust of wind whistled down the chimney like an angry ghost, sending the fire into a frantic dance. Sherlock stretched out on the sofa. 

‘I’m starting to quite like it here.’

-x-  
 _  
‘So, what now?’ Angela turned to them, once they were all outside._

_‘Do you know what?’ said John. ‘The way she talked to you Angela, Victoria and Gruner deserve one another.’_

_‘Nobody deserves the stuff he does to people, Dr Watson.’_

_‘You’re right.’ John scratched at his head in frustration. ‘But it’s your attack and those videos you talked about we should be investigating, instead of wasting our breath on saving that woman from her stupid infatuation.’_

_‘We can’t just let her walk into it. I don’t care how she talked to me.’_

_‘Angela Winter, you are beyond admirable.’_

_Angela blinked at Sherlock. ‘Really?’_

_‘What you did tonight was very brave. And believe me that in shifting our priority away from stopping Gruner getting married again…’_

_‘Oh, no.’_

_‘Let me finish. In shifting our priority, I still intend to save Victoria de Merville. But my focus now isn’t on who Gruner has the potential to harm, rather who he already has harmed. You come first in the case now. You and his other victims. I’m going to personally ensure that Richard Gruner goes to prison for a very, very long time. Victoria will drop him like a bad smell and you, Angela, will have a good life as an excellent Glamour photographer.’_

_‘You don’t know that. I’ve only just started out.’_

_‘I might have browsed through the pictures on your website.’_

_‘Oh?’_

_‘The models look… very natural. Cheerful and at ease. I take it that that’s generally supposed to be a good thing.’_

_Angela shrugged, with a glimmer of a proud smile. ‘I just know what it’s like on the other side of the lens, is all.’_

_‘Let’s get you in a taxi.’ Sherlock stopped her from hailing a black cab. ‘Not that one. Not while you’re being followed.’_

_‘I was only followed back from your place that one time.’_

_‘Still, though. I booked a minicab driver who I know I can trust.’_

_‘This Salim, again?’ asked John. ‘We got Salim to drive us back to the British Museum with all that Saxon Gold that got nicked last year,’ he told Angela. ‘He thought that was terrific. Word of warning, though – he sings. Constantly.’_

_‘Don’t contact me again unless you continue to be followed,’ Sherlock told her. ‘And in the event that there’s an emergency and I can’t be reached, I’m giving you the numbers of George Lestrade…’_

_‘Greg,’ corrected John._

_‘Tony Gregson…’_

_‘Toby,’ said John._

_‘And Sally Donovan.’_

_‘Sally,’ said John. ‘Oh, no. Wait. He actually got that one right.’_

_‘They’re good coppers. They’ll help you if you need it. Ah! Here’s Salim.’_

_A minicab pulled up, an off-key rendition of Spandau Ballet’s “Gold” emanating from within. Sherlock paid the fare in advance and the cab sped away._

_‘Poor woman,’ John sighed as they watched the taxi disappear. ‘Jesus, why wouldn’t Victoria so much as listen to her?’_

_‘You’d be surprised,’ said Sherlock, ‘the levels of brutality people can be willing to write off or explain away when it’s been inflicted by somebody they love.’ He put his phone to his ear. ‘Hello, Mary? How’s tricks? Listen, what do you know about Richard Gruner? Ah-huh. Mm-hmm. OK, great, fancy helping me and Him Indoors get him incarcerated forever and ever amen? Yeah, thought so. So, here’s the plan. You’ve got 48 hours to become an expert in Antique Chinese Pottery. He’s away after the weekend, and he’s bound to take any incriminating evidence with him, so we should get it done before that.’_

_‘Sherlock, what are you doing? Are you planning another bloody break-in? With my wife?’_

_‘Gruner’s already seen John, and I do need somebody a little less Damsel In Distress-y for this job, so he can take over childcare duties.’_

_‘What do you mean, “Damsel In Distress-y”? Am I being relegated to babysitter, here?’_

_‘It’s not babysitting if it’s your own child, John.’ He put the phone back to his ear. ‘OK. Yes, good idea. Great, I’ll email you a more thorough plan of action in the morning. OK, shall do. Night! No, you hang up first. Night!’ He hung up. ‘John, you need to go home. Mrs Watson has some undercover work to do, and it’s your turn to wash up anyway.’_

_‘Undercover work,’ whispered John. ‘She’s supposed to be putting that whole life behind her, Sherlock. You personally went to great lengths to make sure she could.’_

_‘Just getting her out of the house for a bit, don’t worry. Boredom’s the worst thing for new mothers, these days. Never taking time for their interests outside of child rearing can get horribly depressing and isolating.’ Sherlock smiled brightly, flagging down a taxi. ‘I’ll be round as soon as I’ve worked out the finer logistics of the plan. Give my regards to Willamina.’_

_‘Phyllis.’_

_‘Whatever.’ He indicated for John to get in to the waiting taxi. ‘Night.’_

-x-

‘What time is it?’

‘Half ten.’

‘Maybe we should think about bed. Sherlock’s supposed to be here to rest.’

Most of them nodded in agreement. None of them moved from their positions around the fire.

Mrs Hudson pulled the frankly immense cake from the coffee table towards her. ‘Another slice?’

‘I shouldn’t,’ said Molly, handing over her plate for another helping anyway.

With various grunts that this was definitely the last one, absolutely the last, and Mrs Hudson really did have to put the rest of the cake away after this, the rest of the plates were passed to her as well.

‘I should have brought a pack of cards, or something,’ said Greg. ‘Somebody remind me tomorrow to get a pack of cards. Or Pictionary. Or something.’

‘Twister,’ said Molly into the cushion that her head was very slowly melding into.

‘How am I supposed to play Twister like this?’ Sherlock asked.

‘So, you would play Twister without the injuries?’ John nudged Sherlock’s good foot with his own. ‘Might hold you to that, when you’re better.’

‘Oh, there’s a mental image and a half,’ said Greg with a faint grimace.

‘Goodness, yes,’ said Molly with a smile. ‘We could play “I Have Never” now. We don’t need anything for that.’

‘No,’ said Sherlock.

‘I think a game of “I Have Never” is going to be the most sure fire way of Sherlock Holmes getting absolutely rolling drunk within half an hour,’ grinned John.

‘We could play “Me Deducing Stuff About All Of You” as an alternative to “Me Being Pressured Into Drinking A Lot Simply Because I’ve Had A More Interesting Life”,’ Sherlock suggested.

‘Don’t you just play that all the time, though?’ asked Greg.

‘Go on,’ said Sherlock. ‘Give me something to work out.’

Greg took another big mouthful of cake. ‘All right.’ He pulled up a trouser leg to just over the knee and pointed at a small scar. ‘How did I get this?’

‘You were making an arrest, your detainee was kneeling, nobody had noticed he had a screwdriver up his sleeve until he jammed it into your leg.’

‘Spot on.’ He pulled open the neck of his shirt a little to reveal another scar below his collar bone. ‘This?’

‘That’s just where you had a birthmark removed.’

‘Two out of two. Well done.’

‘Do me!’ Molly rolled up a sleeve. There was a faint three inch scar on her left forearm.

Sherlock took her arm. ‘Childhood accident, cut it coming off your bike when you were… eigh…?’

‘Eleven.’

‘Eigh-leven. That’s what I was going to say. Next!’

‘Well, you’ve seen my only scar,’ said Mrs Hudson. ‘Little burn mark on my hand from a hot pan, years ago.’

‘No. He did it. Burnt you with a cigarette in 1986.’

‘Oh, Sherlock.’

‘Your husband was a dickhead and he’s dead, stop covering up for him. That’s not your only scar, either.’

‘Oh, we’re still playing Name That Scar, are we?’ John pulled his jumper off over his head and pointed at a faint line on his bicep. ‘Remember this one?’

‘You got a little nick on the arm with a hook.’

‘And why was I being chased by a man with a meat hook? Who had put me in that position?’

‘I got chased by the hook man as well you know, John.’

‘Then there was this…’ John pointed to a thin line of missing hair on the back of his head ‘where I got pushed out of a window…’

‘It was on the ground floor! Honestly. If you’re blaming me for those, you may as well blame that…’ Sherlock reached across and pulled the neck of John’s TShirt aside to reveal the bullet scar on his shoulder ‘on whatever Prime Minister decided to go to war.’

‘I do. A little bit.’

‘You see, now,’ Sherlock told the room, ‘this has just descended into John Watson Showing Off His Scars. But if it’s one-upmanship you’re after…’ he unbuttoned his shirt. ‘Ta-da.’


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for drug use, violence & implied sexual assault in this chapter.

_It was a clear, mild night. By the time Sherlock had located the Homeless Network contacts he’d had watching Angela to see if she was still being followed, he wasn’t far from Regent’s Park anyway, so decided just to walk the rest of the way._

_He cut down a shortcut, aware of one person behind him. Male. Heavy set. Not hurrying as such, but walking with a certain urgency. So far, so everyday. But then, the street lamp cast shadow loomed up behind him, and it just wasn’t right. Too close. Potential mugger, then? But the head was too big. And the ears…_

_His usual modus operandi, when being approached from behind by assailants who wanted to rob him when he just didn’t have the time or patience to be doing with it, was to turn around and confront them head on. Sherlock started to turn. He saw the pig mask. He saw the cricket bat._

_No. No. Don’t confront. There was only one right now, where were the other two?_

_He ran. This wouldn’t be the same as the wilds of Serbia, no, no, they had no army, no helicopter and this was his turf, damn it. This was his jungle. Bin, wall, roof, alley. Get to a safe spot, call John. Call Lestrade. This was his turf. His turf. He skittered and span on his heels again as the second pig appeared at the end of the alley, brandishing a chain. Wall. Garden. Fence. Garden. Hedge. Garden. Wall. Car park. Breathe. Phone. Call John. Call Lestrade. His fingers shook and fumbled. Damn! Call John. Call 999. Call somebody._

_He noticed the heavy jangle of the chain too late. Its end whipped over the garden wall he had just scaled, catching his hand and knocking his phone from it. He fell to his knees, chasing the tumbling phone, but heavy feet were running towards him, about to launch into a kick. Somebody was about to either kick his phone away, or kick him in the head._

_The kick landed on the side of his jaw, and threw him to the ground. Pain. The taste of blood. At least one loose tooth. He reached again for his phone, but it was kicked away this time. The second pig had scaled the wall now. The chain landed on his back._

_The car park was full, and he and his attackers were between a high wall, a Land Rover and a van. If there even was a CCTV camera in this little car park, it wasn’t placed anywhere that he could see and, therefore, couldn’t be filming any of this. The cricket bat hit him in the ribs. He thought about Serbia. He had endured this sort of thing in Serbia for days. He would endure this. It would hurt like a bastard, and then it would be over. Another blow to the ribs, and somebody jumped on his right shin. Was that him screaming? Would people come and help if he screamed? There was another sound. A wailing. A car alarm. Good. If people thought their property was in danger, they were more likely to respond._

_There was the screech of a van, turning a corner, fast._

_Somebody was coming to help. It was over._

_The van stopped alongside the two parked vehicles he was being beaten between._

_No. No. It wasn’t over. It was only just beginning. A third pig got out of the van and swapped driving duties with the pig that had the cricket bat. He was hauled up from underneath his arms and dragged into the back of the waiting van. No. It was about to get much, much worse._

_There was a hefty tool box in the back of the van, and a filthy mattress that he was thrown on to as they drove away through London._

_‘Oh, dear.’ The third pig didn’t even try to disguise his voice, but then Sherlock had known that it had to be Gruner from the start. He grabbed Sherlock by the chin holding his face up towards the pig mask. ‘These investigators. They’re supposed to be perceptive, but they never bloody listen to very clear warnings, do they?’_

_‘Evening, Gruner.’_

_Gruner pulled off the mask. ‘I had a phone call from my fiancée earlier, Mr Holmes. She was very upset.’ Gruner slapped his face. ‘You and some whore or other had been threatening her.’ Another slap. ‘Angela’s been telling you all about my private collection, I take it.’_

_‘You had her followed.’_

_‘To see where she was going. I thought I was done with her – that nobody would listen to some dried-up ex Page 3 Girl. Might have to pay her studio a visit in the future though, if things carry on like this. Check up on her. Or, maybe I won’t need to. Maybe all of this will go away, once you’ve been adequately dissuaded from finding my private collection.’_

_Sherlock didn’t reply._

_Gruner grinned. ‘You think we’re just going to hit you some more, don’t you? I know that that won’t do the trick. No.’ He got out his phone. ‘I’m going to dissuade you from finding my private collection, by putting you in it.’_

_Sherlock still didn’t say anything. He pushed away and scrabbled towards the back door of the van, It was only doing 30 mph – if he rolled when he hit the tarmac, then…_

_A hand grabbed at his ankle. He tried to kick it away, but then his other ankle was taken hold of and pulled. They must have fractured his tibia when they jumped on it, because being pulled back by the legs was agony._

_‘No.’ Sherlock said. ‘No. Angela told us that you get away with those videos by pretending it’s all a consensual show. You won’t get that from me.’_

_‘Not all of them,’ smiled Gruner. ‘Just the ones I don’t mind showing select others. Just the nicer ones. And, if you’ve had a proper chat with Angela, then you’ll have seen what happens when people refuse to star in my little movies.’_

_The second pig took a large folding knife from the tool box and opened it._

_‘You’re like a porcelain doll, aren’t you?’ Gruner continued. ‘I’m not sure how worried you are about getting an interesting scar or two on that face. But scarring her wasn’t the point. The point was making sure she couldn’t work any more. She loved her modelling. Lived for it. Now, how would I make sure you never work again, Mr Holmes? We’d probably have to take your eyes. Maybe your tongue, as well. And of course, John Watson meddled, didn’t he? We could pay him a home visit. Cut off a hand, perhaps – it would make writing that blog of his a lot harder.’ Gruner paused. ‘Forgive me, I’m going straight for the nuclear option. I just thought it would be best for you to be aware of what extremes this little situation could go to. Let’s start with something simpler, shall we? You’re a violinist as well, aren’t you? How do you think that’s going to work out for you with a couple of missing fingers?’_

_Gruner pointed his phone at Sherlock as the pig held the blade of the knife against Sherlock’s left ring finger._

_‘We’re making a film tonight, Sherlock,’ Gruner said. ‘What kind of film would you prefer to make? It’s up to you.’_

-x-

‘Oh, Sherlock,’ sighed Mrs Hudson, dismayed. 

‘Can’t really see the bullet wound for the bruising at the moment,’ Sherlock told them, pointing to his bared chest, ‘but it’s here. No exit wound, alas, but there are other interesting features to the rear…’ he turned with difficulty, and lifted the back of his shirt. ‘Boot print,’ he said cheerfully, guiding them around the injuries with his good hand, ‘thick metal chain, and…’ he pointed out a series of faded lines on his shoulders ‘electrical cable. Those are a bit older.’ He started doing up his shirt again. ‘The funny thing is, the ones that look the worst right now are the ones that won’t scar. They didn’t do anything to me that would cause permanent damage.’

‘Didn’t they?’ asked John.

‘No,’ said Sherlock. ‘They didn’t.’ he sat back down again, carefully. ‘Well, that was a fun game. What now? Let’s play Molly Hooper Tests My Urine. Let’s play Molly Hooper Tests Everybody’s Urine.’

‘OK,’ sighed Molly, ‘I’ll just test everyone from here.’ She put her fingertips to her temples and gazed around the room. ‘Good news – we’re all clean.’

‘What was that?’

‘That was me testing you. In my Mind Lab.’

‘You don’t have a Mind Lab!’

‘Yes I do. It has an espresso machine and Tom Hiddleston holds my test tubes.’

‘Not just anybody can make up a Mind Place!’

‘I might make a Mind Office,’ added Greg. He closed his eyes. ‘Oh, lovely. Leather sofas and an Anti Sherlock Force Field.’

‘Stop that! Molly, I demand that you test all of us for drugs. Properly.’

‘Sherlock,’ protested Mrs Hudson.

Molly shared glances with John and Greg, and giggled. ‘What, you think we don’t know?’

‘Molly and I both spent years and years at medical school,’ John told Sherlock. ‘You really think we wouldn’t know Space Cake if we so much as smelled it cooking?’

Sherlock frowned at Greg. ‘What about you, Officer?’

‘I used to work in Narcotics. You know that, Sherlock, that’s how we met.’

‘That was you?’

Greg nodded. 

Sherlock blinked at them all. ‘You lot are terrible choices of supervison for this bloody holiday. You’re supposed to be keeping me safe and clean on a Rest Cure. You do know that marijuana can considerably exacerbate existing psychological problems?’

‘It’s on the list, Sherlock,’ Molly sighed.

‘What list?’

‘Your brother gave me a list of substances you don’t react badly to in moderation, which he thinks you can be allowed to indulge in in small doses if it’ll help you unwind. It’s basically just the odd ciggie, any ‘herbal remedies’ Mrs Hudson might have brought since she’s got a particularly reputable dealer, and booze. And of those, he says it’s the booze we’ve really got to look out for, because apparently you’re a real lightweight.’

‘I am not!’

‘What “psychological problems”?’ John asked, quietly.

‘Hmm?’

‘You just suggested you had psychological problems that could be exacerbated by taking pot,’ said John. ‘What are those, exactly?’

Sherlock glared. ‘Perceived ones, clearly. Erroneously perceived ones.’ He pushed himself upright with his crutch. I’m going to bed.’

-x-

‘Don’t.’

John opened one eye. Sherlock was sprawled uncomfortably in the next bed. Outside, a few seagulls cried out in the dark. It was late. So late that it was almost early.

‘Don’t touch me.’

‘Sherlock?’ Mumbled John. Sherlock’s eyes were still closed. 

‘Get them out of here, John.’ Sherlock’s voice was quiet, but desperate. ‘Out of here.’

‘It’s all right, Sherlock. We’re safe, here.’

‘If it was your daughter you’d. You’d. NOT THE BABY NOT THE BABY NOT THE BABY SHIT JOHN JOHN THE BABY’

Molly and Mrs Hudson came running in from the other bedroom at the sudden shouting, and John could hear Greg charging up the stairs.

‘Sherlock. It’s OK. It’s OK.’

‘He won’t listen,’ Mrs Hudson told him. He’ll be all right, he just needs to find the…’

Eyes wide open now, but still clearly asleep, Sherlock pulled a claw hammer out from under his mattress, and visibly relaxed at the tactile sensation of its hard weight in his good hand.

‘He sleeps with a hammer in his bed, now?’

Mrs Hudson nodded. ‘I made him move the knife. It wasn’t safe.’

Molly chewed at the inside of her lip. ‘We shouldn’t have let him eat the cake. What if we’ve just made him worse?’

‘Oh, he’s been like this for weeks, dear. It’s not always about the baby. Sometimes it’s Mary, or me. Or just shouting for help.’

‘Does he often call out for me to help?’ asked John.

Mrs Hudson paused for a moment, her face crumpled in pity. ‘Every time.’

-x-  
 _  
‘John.’_

_‘Mmf.’ John stirred slightly, arms loosely curled around his sleeping infant daughter as if she were a particularly delicate teddy. ‘Rough night. Phyllis got the squirts. Nother half an hour?’_

_‘John.’ Mary shook him again, with a quiet urgency. ‘It’s Sherlock.’_

_John groaned. ‘What does that gangly git want now?’_

_‘He’s in hospital.’_

_John sat up, blearily. ‘But how can this be? You’ve been here with me all night.’_

_‘John, no. We’re not making jokes about this. Not this time.’_

_‘What happened to him?’_

_‘He’s not saying. He’s not saying anything. But it’s bad.’_

_John rushed through the shower, and heard the local news on the radio from the other room as he was throwing some clothes on._

_“…assault victim discovered by dog walkers in Regent’s Park this morning is believed to be celebrity detective Sherlock Holmes…”_

_‘Shit.’_

_“…described as a cowardly and vicious attack…”_

_‘Shit. Shit.’_

_“…family have been informed. Police are appealing for any witnesses who might have seen anything of suspicion in the NW1 area last night…”_

_Mary appeared in the doorway. ‘Shit.’_

_‘I know exactly who it was. He was warned. He was warned right in front of me and I let him walk home alone.’_

_‘Gruner.’_

_John nodded. ‘Chinese Pottery,’ he told her. ‘We’re going to get this arsehole.’_

_‘Chinese Pottery,’ Mary agreed. ‘John? I want to know about every broken bone. Because that’s what I’m doing to Gruner first.’_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a brief mention of suicide. Also Sherlock manages to spoil the end of The Kraken Wakes in this chapter - sorry about that.

_‘Shit.’_

_‘I know,’ breathed Greg._

_‘I mean. Shit.’_

_‘I can actually hear you, you know,’ said Sherlock from the room beyond. ‘Don’t be scared, the pair of you. It’s not as bad as all that. Which is more than I can say for this disgusting tea. Gareth, would you go and get some more?’_

_‘Well, it’s going to be the same from all the vending machines,’ said Greg._

_‘I meant, from Pret or something?’ Sherlock gave him a big-eyed, pleading look. ‘And a straw?’_

_Lestrade walked off with a sigh._

_John went to Sherlock’s side. ‘Gruner, right?’_

_‘Hmm.’_

_‘Well, don’t worry, we are still bang on schedule for Operation Chinese Pottery, OK? Have you planned out the nitty gritty of it, yet?’_

_Sherlock shook his head. ‘We’re scrapping that.’_

_‘What?’_

_‘It’s not going to work out.’_

_‘Sherlock, he’s marrying Victoria next week.’_

_‘This isn’t about stopping a marriage any more. It’s about stopping a murderer…’_

_‘…and the sort of person who gets a man beaten unconscious and dumped in a park as he’s walking home.’_

_‘Well, quite.’_

_‘Well, stop him, then!’_

_‘I will. But we’re not going with the pottery thing. I need to think of something else. Ugh, I have to get out of hospital.’_

_‘Not for a while, you’re not. Remember last time? Besides, it’s not like you can get much done in this state. Won’t even be playing violin for a while.’_

_Sherlock stared down ruefully at his left arm, immobilised in a sling, his broken ring and pinky fingers in splints. ‘Tell Mary she’s off the hook, she can stop cramming. If you wouldn’t mind shutting the door after you on your way out? Far too much babble going on in this bloody place.’_  
  
-x-

John awoke to a sky the colour of old chewing gum and an empty room. When he went downstairs he saw Sherlock and Greg outside, drinking coffee and staring out to sea as the wind whipped at them. He poured a coffee for himself and joined them.

‘Morning, John,’ shouted Greg over the roar of wind and crash of wave. ‘It finally stopped raining, so we thought we’d celebrate by having our breakfast Al Fresco. We are on holiday, after all.’ He huddled his coat closer to himself and hunched to bring the rapidly cooling coffee up to his lips. ‘It’s all very ContinentalohforChrist’sake. John, if you’re happy keeping him company, would you mind if I go back in? I miss being able to feel my toes.’

‘Sure, go ahead.’

Greg walked back in to the cottage, leaving Sherlock and John drinking their coffee in silence for a while.

‘I didn’t make him come out here, you know,’ Sherlock said after a while. ‘I just really needed some air, and apparently shuffling off to stand on the edge of a cliff isn’t a good idea for me to do alone at the moment.’

‘You do have form, when it comes to flinging yourself off things.’

‘It’s nothing like that. I like it out here. It’s all so bleak. It’s like standing at the end of the world – the white noise of oblivion rushing above and below. In retrospect, saying things like that out loud might not be particularly helpful in persuading my friends that I’m not, in fact, at all suicidal.’

They shared a little smile. 

‘Right,’ said John, slurping at his coffee.

‘It seems that I was talking in my sleep last night after all.’

‘Greg tell you that?’

Sherlock shook his head. ‘I woke up hugging the hammer. Apologies if I upset anyone with it.’

‘You’re the one who sounded upset.’

‘It’s fine. It’s just sleep talking.’

Another pause. Another sip of coffee.

‘I got you this.’ Sherlock dug a slim paperback out of one of the many recesses of his wildly flapping coat. ‘There’ll be little to do here but read this week anyway.’

‘”The Kraken Wakes”. Fitting.’ John stared out at the angry sea. ‘I think it’s certainly stirring right now.’

‘It’s where Mary got your daughter’s name from. Phyllis Watson’s the heroine. She goes around being charming and clever and getting into scrapes, and her husband writes about it in his diary. Begins and ends with them standing together at a remote cottage, watching the sea consume the earth.’

He took another sip of coffee.

‘Yeah, right,’ scoffed John. He scanned the first page of the novel. ‘Oh. Actually, that’s a bit eerie.’

‘Wait til you read about her sneakily building a secret wall in a basement to keep all their stuff in and not telling him for the whole book,’ said Sherlock. ‘That’s very me. And, thinking about it, that’s also the twist of the story. Sorry about that. Oh. Here comes the Housekeeper.’

It took a moment before John was able to see the elderly Fiat Panda chugging its way down the country lane towards them. Sherlock and John lingered outside, watching the car’s approach.

‘Little old lady,’ murmured John, before the driver could be seen.

‘Old man,’ corrected Sherlock. 

The car drew nearer and was indeed being driven by an old man. ‘He worries excessively about the effect of the weather on peoples health,’ added Sherlock, and then ‘his brother is a vicar’ as the car pulled up.

‘Morning! You don’t want to stay out too long in this weather,’ said the Housekeeper as he walked towards them, ‘you’ll catch your deaths.’

Sherlock grinned at John – another rare flash of sun – before following the Housekeeper indoors.

‘Get the heating and everything on all right last night, did you?’ asked the old man, unpacking his bags. ‘Sorry, I realised too late yesterday I hadn’t left tea and coffee, so I brought biscuits to make up for it.’ He slapped a packet of Hobnobs on the kitchen surface.’

‘Oh, lovely,’ said Mrs Hudson, ‘I’ll pop the kettle on, then.’

‘No, it’s all right,’ said the old man, hurrying past her, ‘I’ve got it.’

‘Oh. All right.’ Mrs Hudson narrowed her eyes at him.

‘Don’t suppose you’ve been out and about much yet, what with this one in the wars,’ continued the old man blithely, jabbing a thumb in Sherlock’s direction. ‘You got your coastal walks and your nature walks through the moors, though I’d watch yourself in this weather, and there’s Tredannick Wollas just down the road, there’s a couple of nice pubs there and a shop, have you been yet?’

‘We popped out last night,’ said Mrs Hudson, before adding pointedly, ‘to get tea.’

‘Don’t let yourself be off by all that awful business everybody’s talking about,’ said the old man, ‘this is usually a lovely, quiet little village – it’s just one of those things, I suppose.’

‘Why, what happened?’ asked Greg. ‘When we went to the shop, people were carrying on about evil spirits.’

‘Yeah, well, some people watch too many silly films, in my opinion. I’ve had one couple try to get me to get my sister to do an exorcism, but I keep telling them, she’s just a rural Anglican vicar, she doesn’t really do that sort of thing, she needs special dispensation.’

‘Ah,’ Sherlock said. ‘Sister.’

The old man turned to Sherlock, his face furrowing into the expression of somebody who realises he vaguely recognises someone, but isn’t sure how.

‘Pardon my asking – you’re not off the telly, are you?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Don’t tell me. Something to do with crime fighting. Jonathan Creek.’

‘Who?’

‘He’s Sherlock Holmes,’ said Greg. ‘Often in the news, for better or worse.’

‘Oh!’ the old man’s face lit up. ‘Oh yeah, there was that grim business with the… well, that’ll explain all this then I suppose.’ He indicated to Sherlock’s leg brace and crutch. ‘Well, if you’re after a mystery then, Mr Holmes, looks like we’ve got that covered for you, too. Perfect holiday destination for you, eh?’

‘Sherlock’s not taking on any new cases at the moment,’ John told the Housekeeper. ‘He’s here to rest and recuperate.’

‘What happened?’ asked Sherlock, taking a seat.

‘Sherlock,’ warned John.

‘Nobody brought any books for me to read on holiday, John. I don’t want to get bored. Tell me, Mr…?’

‘Roundhay.’

‘Mr Roundhay. What happened in Tredannick Wollas?’

-x-  
 _John had to admit, he’d sort-of been expecting the silver Mercedes that he saw parked up outside his house as he got home. No matter how many domestic scenes involving Mycroft Holmes he’d walked in on, it never failed to jar, so the sight of Sherlock’s prim older brother drinking coffee with his wife and prodding experimentally at his daughter caused John to frown involuntarily as he entered the kitchen._

_‘So this is Sherlock’s little Goddaughter,’ said Mycroft, with his usual air of disapproval._

_‘Er, no. We’re not sure whether we’re getting her Christened, actually. And Sherlock’s sort-of an Atheist. Or a Sherlocktheist. One of the two.’_

_Mycroft quirked a brow at him. ‘But if she’s not Christened, how do you expect her to get in to St Ann’s?’_

_‘What?’_

_‘Primary school. C of E. Twenty minutes walk. It’s very good, if you can’t afford Private, which you can’t.’_

_‘She’s three months old, we’re not even thinking about schools yet.’_

_Mycroft leaned over to the corkboard and plucked a leaflet for St Ann’s CoE Primary from it._

_‘Sherlock brought that round while I was still pregnant,’ admitted Mary, head still buried in her laptop. ‘And to be fair, it does look very good.’_

_‘But she will need to be Christened,’ Mycroft reiterated._

_‘Oh,’ John told his wife. ‘You can knock that on the head now, Mary. Sherlock’s put the brakes on that Pottery plan.’_

_‘Oh, what?’_

_Mycroft nodded to himself. ‘As I predicted.’_

_‘Really? Getting hurt’s never stopped Sherlock before. If anything, it’s only served to spur him on. Sometimes it’s like the only thing keeping him going is pure, concentrated spite.’_

_‘I am only too aware of that, Dr Watson. But having visited him this morning, wouldn’t you say that there’s something suddenly very wrong with my brother?’_

_John nodded. ‘It’s not like him. I’d suspect he was up to something, but how can he be? He can barely move.’_

_‘There’s more to it than that. Something’s wrong. I could see it in his eyes. And it makes sense that the answer is in the one thing he’s changed his mind about since last night.’_

_‘Pottery?’ asked Mary._

_‘Pottery,’ agreed Mycroft. ‘Please do continue to study, Mrs Watson. It seems as if it’ll be up to me to design the plan now. But we should consider it our personal imperative to obtain Gruner’s private collection.’_

_‘Because he beat your brother up?’_

_‘Because my brother has explicitly told me to stay out of Gruner’s affairs.’_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence and implied sexual assault in this chapter

  
A terrible and mysterious tragedy had befallen the Tregennis family – a wealthy older couple and their adult children, Belinda and Max. Even though Tredannick Wollas only had a population of about 800, so John imagined almost everyone in the village must have had some sort of connection or other to the family, Roundhay spoke as if he were a personal goldmine of insider information, having been next door neighbour to Max Tregennis for almost a year now. Roundhay’s story was mainly about Max’s tempestuous relationship with the rest of his family, which had lead to him either moving out of the family home of his own accord or being thrown out – Roundhay seemed unclear about this – and washing his hands of them entirely for some time, until Roundhay had persuaded Max to seek a reconciliation. Max was still living in the little bungalow next to Roundhay’s, but at least now he visited once a week or so. Which was nice. 

Roundhay waited for somebody in the listening group to congratulate him on essentially saving the Tregennis family from complete collapse before continuing that, sadly, after the other night, it was all for nothing after all. Poor Max had gone to have dinner with his family, watched a bit of telly with them all and left them watching a film together. When their cleaning lady had arrived at the house that morning, she’d found them. Still all sitting together on the sofa. Curtains still drawn, telly still blaring. The only one even vaguely conscious had been the dad, gibbering and screaming. The mother had fallen into a coma, and Belinda was dead. Max’s parents had been taken to hospital, but no sense had been made out of his father yet and his mother wasn’t expected to pull through. 

‘Such a tragedy,’ concluded Roundhay. ‘Poor Max. And poor Ivy Porter, who found them. She’s not been the same since. She fainted, when she saw them, and can you blame her? You see why some people are getting all superstitious about it? It’s not right, any of this.’ 

‘No, you’re right. It’s not.’ 

John knew that expression on Sherlock’s face only too well. 

‘Where’s Max now, Mr Roundhay?’ 

‘At home, I think.’ 

‘And Tregennis household?’ 

‘Cordoned off, I doubt they’d let you…’ 

‘It’s all right, I brought Scotland Yard with me.’ Sherlock pointed at Lestrade with his crutch. ‘And Forensics.’ He pointed to Molly. ‘And also Mrs Hudson’s here. Go, team!’ 

-x- 

_  
_

_‘Very nice, Dr Barton. Ming. 1420s?’_

_‘1430s,’ replied “Dr Hillary Barton”; specialist Chinese Pottery Antiques Dealer, and definitely not a CIA Assassin turned NHS Receptionist._

_‘How many more do you have?’ asked Gruner, inspecting the saucer._

_‘There’s four pieces, all from the same period, all of similar quality.’_

_‘I think we can do a deal. If you’d care to step this way…’ Gruner led her through the house, towards his office._

_Good. Good. This was working perfectly. John was already in the house, searching the study, she could get Gruner away to the other end of the house and check the safe._

_‘A set of four,’ muttered Gruner as they walked through the house. ‘However did you come by them, Doctor?’_

_‘I’m not exactly going to give up my sources to a fellow art dealer, Mr Gruner.’_

_‘Of course.’ He opened up the door to his home office. ‘Curious that you came straight to me, though – did you not consider seeing what you might fetch at auction? Shopping around for the best price, even? I’ve heard nothing of these on the grapevine.’_

_‘I’m just after a quick sell, Mr Gruner. You know what that’s like.’_

_‘Quite.’ He opened his safe and took out a ledger. No electronics in there, from the quick flash that Mary was able to see. ‘I’ll take a look at the rest, now.’_

_‘The rest?’_

_‘The rest of the set. You expect me to make a quick transaction from you, a trader that I have curiously never heard of before, without examining everything I’m going to buy?’_

_‘I…’_

_‘You do have the rest of the set, don’t you, Mrs Watson?’_

_Mary didn’t have a gun._

_Mary didn’t need a gun._

_Mary vaulted the desk that stood between her and Gruner, and kicked him in the throat._

_He fell back, gasping for breath. ‘You fucking bitch,’ he croaked._

_‘I know you are,’ said Mary, grabbing his Tiffany desk lamp, ‘but what am I?’ She smashed it over his head._

_-x-_

_There were several external hard drives in Gruner’s study. The only way to see if one was the “private collection”, John decided, was to check them. The computer in the study switched on mercifully quietly, and he plugged the first hard drive in, only to find nothing but accounts and invoices. A second revealed much of the same, and a bit of fairly everyday porn. He tried the third._

_Oh, God._

_Twenty three movie files, all recorded on a phone and downloaded. All in the back of a squalid white transit van. Horrified, John clicked through them. All those women. The occasional man. Different races, different ages, different builds. All of them sobbing and abused and humiliated._

_He clicked through._

_He clicked through to the last one._

_‘Oh, fuck. Oh Jesus God, no.’_

_He stared at the image on screen._

_He wasn’t going to cry about this. Not yet. Not until he’d finished with Gruner._

-x-

‘You’re feeling better, aren’t you?’ John had never seen Sherlock look so sprightly on his crutch before. ‘Nothing to cheer you up like a family being decimated, eh?’

‘I went on holiday,’ said Sherlock, ‘and there was a highly suspicious and mysterious death. Right there. Waiting for me. Like a little chocolate on a hotel pillow.’

‘Yeah, all right Jessica Fletcher.’

‘You’re the one who writes about it. If anybody’s Jessica Fletcher, it’s you.’

John smirked a little. ‘You’ve been watching Murder She Wrote.’

‘I’ve been in a lot, with nothing to do. Yes, I’ve been watching some Daytime TV.’ He peered at the television set that the Tregennis family had been discovered in front of. ‘Maybe it was just too much telly. If you ask me, that’s bound to send anybody mad, into a coma or just make them give up on life.’ He frowned, looking closer. ‘Maybe it _is_ the telly. Something they saw, something they heard… hypnosis? Sonic weaponry? No. No.’ He tried to either kneel or squat to investigate, but ended up toppling. ‘Damn this stupid leg.’

John was just making a very ungraceful attempt to right Sherlock again when Lestrade came back.

‘Did you find the cleaner?’

Greg nodded. ‘She’s had a horrible fright.’

‘Well, obviously.’ Sherlock gave up on investigating the television and started looking at all the window ledges. ‘So what happened? What did she do?’

‘Well, she found the family, like Roundhay said…’

‘Exactly – what exactly did she do? I asked you for all the details, or do I need to go and visit her myself?’

‘No! No.’ Lestrade got out a notebook. ‘She drove to the house, parked up, saw nothing out of the ordinary. She had a key to the house – she usually used it when she came early to clean rather than risk waking somebody up if she rang the doorbell, so she let herself in. Heard the telly, but besides that, everything was normal. She went in to the living room, it was dark because the curtains were drawn and they had their backs to her – she thought they were asleep. She opened the curtains and windows to let some air in, switched the telly off, and then she saw what had happened.’

‘This window, if their backs were to her?’ asked Sherlock, indicating to the closest window to the living room door. 

Lestrade checked his notes. ‘Yeah.’

Sherlock managed to crouch down closer to the latch on the window by ungainly sticking out his injured leg. ‘What then?’

‘She fainted.’

‘Is she prone to fainting on getting a nasty shock?’

‘No. She’s 67, she says that was the first time it had ever happened to her. And that the room felt sort-of close and uncomfortable even before she realised what had happened, that’s why she opened the window. Says the Paramedics mentioned an oppressive atmosphere when they got there too.’

‘Hmm.’ Sherlock hobbled over to the sofa and coffee table. ‘How were they all sitting?’

Lestrade consulted his notes again, and showed Sherlock. Sherlock picked up a burnt-down Yankee Candle from the coffee table. 

‘Someone likes smelly candles. Was this still burning in the morning?’

‘She didn’t say.’

Sherlock sighed. ‘Hopeless.’

‘It’s just a candle, Sherlock. Sorry, why aren’t you looking for how whoever did this might have got in?’

Sherlock patted him on the head. ‘It’s nice having you on holiday with me again, Gary. Why don’t you go and get us all ice creams?’

‘Gerroff!’ Greg batted his hand away.

‘Right.’ Sherlock started to limp back towards the front door of the house. ‘Make sure nobody disturbs this room, find out from the cleaning lady about the smelly candle. Let’s visit Max Tregennis.’

‘Oh! Sherlock.’ Molly was just outside the front door, with a large and angry looking middle aged man. ‘I checked the flowerbeds like you said, they were all fine. But then this man… He wants to know what we’re doing.’

‘What are you doing?’ asked the man. ‘You’re not the police!’

‘This one is,’ replied Sherlock, pointing to Lestrade.

‘Yes, I did say one of us was,’ said Molly, but…’

‘This is a crime scene,’ said the man. ‘A woman died!’

‘So why are you here?’ asked Sherlock. ‘You’re clearly not with the police.’

‘Name’s David Sterndale. Family friend.’

‘Lovely to meet you,’ said Sherlock. ‘I’m Sherlock Holmes. Professionally nosy.’

‘Oh. Thought I recognised you.’

So why come to the house this morning?’

‘To pay my respects.’

‘But it’s a crime scene. Wouldn’t you be better off paying your respects by Mr or Mrs Tregennis’ bedside in hospital?’

‘I’ve already visited them! Poor sods. I’ve been at the hospital ever since getting back yesterday.’

‘Getting back?’

‘Oh. Just a work trip. Halfway there when Roundhay phoned to tell me what had happened. Came back. Obviously.’

‘Why obviously? You’re clearly very well paid – something in pharmaceutical manufacture or biochemistry. Terribly important job. And you blew it all off for some family friends?’

‘We’re very close,’ said Sterndale. ‘Weren’t you in the news last month, Mr Holmes? All of this?’ He pointed to the leg brace and strapped fingers. ‘Somebody didn’t like you investigating him and had your head kicked in?’

‘I think you should stop now, David,’ said Molly, quietly.

‘Didn’t he get away with that, or something?’

‘Are you threatening me, Dr Sterndale?’ 

Sterndale gazed at him for a moment. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no. Just trying to place you.’

‘Well, now we have each other placed,’ Sherlock told him with a smile. ‘Don’t go into the house, there’s a good chap.’

-x-  
 _  
‘Oh, good. You’re awake.’_

_Gruner groaned and shifted in his bonds, tying him to his office chair. John and Mary were perched on his desk, flanking him._

_‘Oh,’ mumbled Gruner, looking up. ‘You brought your husband as well. Have you left the baby sleeping in the car, or something?’_

_‘You know what we came here for, Gruner.’_

_‘Yes. Sherlock won’t be happy about this turn of events, will h…’_

_Gruner was cut off by a punch to the face by John._

_Gruner spat out a gobbet of blood and continued. ‘I thought the Watsons were supposed to be an intelligent pair, but you still really do have no idea who you’re messing with, or what I’m capable of, do you?’_

_‘On the contrary,’ came a carefully controlled voice from a corner of the office behind him, ‘I rather believe that it’s you who has seriously underestimated who he has, as you put it, “messed with”.’ Mycroft Holmes stepped forwards enough to be able to talk into Gruner’s ear. ‘If you brutalised my brother so that you wouldn’t have to go to prison, then I suppose you are to be congratulated. You’re not going to be arrested for this. You are going to sit in this office for a while, and then you are going to be transported to a mortuary, where I assure you, your death will be found to have been completely accidental and unsuspicious. Even if you’re brought to them in a series of buckets.’ He patted Gruner’s shoulder. ‘Dr Watson? Mrs Watson? You may proceed.’_

_‘Bones first?’ Mary asked her husband. ‘Right tibia, three ribs, two fingers and a dislocated shoulder, wasn’t it? Or shall we start off by knocking out a couple of teeth?’_

_‘Not yet,’ replied John. ‘Broken bones and smashed teeth – those are secondary, now.’_

_‘Of course,’ said Mary. ‘One moment.’_

_In the office, in pride of place, was a beautifully painted antique vase. Mary picked it up. 'Oh. This must be worth millions.’_

_She hurled it to the floor. The vase smashed to pieces at Gruner’s feet._

_‘You’re going to teach me a lesson by smashing my stuff?’_

_‘Fix it,’ said Mary, pointing down at the ceramic shards. ‘Don’t just glue it together again – fix it. Make it unsmashed.’_

_‘Go on,’ added John. ‘Tell you what – if you can unsmash that, we’ll let you go.’_

_‘What’s the matter, Richard?’ Mary asked. ‘Do you think it can’t be done? What if it wasn’t a pot? What if it was a person? What if it was dozens of people? Fix the pot, Richard.’ She pulled out a knife. ‘Fix it!’_

_‘Stop.’_

_John and Mary both stopped, and turned. Sherlock was a mottle of bruises in the doorway. He’d only managed to get his coat half-on over his hospital gown, and looked understandably chilly._

_‘Sherlock,’ said John, ‘I think it should be obvious to you by now that it’s too late to stop us from seeing that video.’_

_Sherlock looked across at his brother. ‘I was very clear, Mycroft.’_

_‘And you thought I’d heed your orders, Little Brother?’_

_‘Not for a second. To be honest, I assumed you’d consider my warning a bluff and decide to stay away from Gruner to spite me.’_

_‘I knew you were double bluffing.’_

_‘Well, I’m not bluffing now. I want Gruner and his hard drives handed over to the police. In one piece.’_

_‘No.’ John clenched his fists. ‘Not after what you did for me and Mary. He's not walking away from this. Nobody should do that sort of thing to anybody. But certainly nobody gets to do that stuff to you.’_

_‘It’s not as if he’s going to get away with it, John.’_

_‘No, you’re right. He’s not.’_

_‘John. Please believe me - it wasn’t any sense of embarrassment that made me decide not to send you and Mary in to find that hard drive. It’s not that I didn’t want to risk you seeing it because I was ashamed. I didn’t want to risk you seeing it because of what you’d do if you did. You’re not doing this. You’re not going to kill him.’_

_‘You don’t need to protect your friends from this, Sherlock,’ said Mycroft. ‘You of all people should know that I am adept at making murder charges go away.’_

_‘You are not taking this away from me! Or from Angela, or any of his other victims. Taking revenge for something that didn’t happen to you isn’t going to serve anybody but yourselves.’_

_‘Is it OK if I do it, then?’ Angela Winter appeared in the doorway to the office._

_‘You shouldn’t have followed me, Angela,’ said Sherlock._

_‘No, I think I should,’ Angela replied. ‘Lots of people deciding for me what should be done with the man who ruined my life. I should definitely be here.’_

_She walked slowly towards Gruner. ‘Do you know what it feels like, having your face sliced up, Gruner?’ She took the knife out of Mary’s hand._

_‘Angela, don’t.’_

_‘Stop protecting him, Mr Holmes!’_

_‘I’m trying to protect you, Angela. You’ve made a new life for yourself. You’ve got your career, your studio… is he really worth jeopardising all of that for?’_

_Angela paused, the knife wavering against Gruner’s face._

_‘We’ve got him,’ said Sherlock. ‘We’ve won this one. We don’t need to resort to his methods.’_

_Angela put down the knife. ‘Fine. We’ll do it your way.’_

_‘If you’re quite certain,’ sighed Mycroft. ‘Mrs Watson, perhaps you and Miss Winter should make yourselves scarce before the police arrive.’_

_Gruner glared up at John, Sherlock and Mycroft as the women made a hasty getaway._

_‘What are you looking so miserable for?’ muttered John. ‘Your last victim just saved your life.’_

_‘What are you all looking so miserable for?’ asked Gruner in reply, ‘you just won the game.’_

_‘I can honestly say,’ replied John, ‘I have never felt so shitty about winning the game before in my life.’_


	7. Chapter 7

John caught Mrs Hudson’s smile as he got in with supplies for dinner.

‘What? What is it? You haven’t been baking again, have you?’

‘He’s pinning up pictures in there,’ beamed Mrs Hudson, ‘and bits of string like in The Wire – it’s like he’s back to his old self again.’

‘What – just pinning them to the walls of our holiday cottage?’

‘Yes!’

‘We are so losing our Security Deposit.’

‘Yes! Like I say – back to his old self.’

John walked through into the living room. 

‘So, we have two suspects,’ said Sherlock, without looking round at him. ‘Max and Dr Sterndale. Max was disowned by his family a few years back – possibly the reconciliation was just a ruse to wreak revenge. A little digging into Sterndale’s past shows that he used to be engaged to Belinda but she broke it off, and you will never guess where he was working up until three months ago.’

‘You’re right – I’ll never guess.’

‘He’s a biochemist in the West Country.’

‘Not Baskerville?’

‘Bingo.’

‘Small world.’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘Big lab.’ He paused. ‘Big Lab! Because it was a dog.’

‘God, you’re cheerful about this. It’s getting eerie, now.’

‘Oh!’ Sherlock turned around. ‘Something’s up.’

‘What?’

John heard a car pull up on the path outside and somebody get out and hurry to the door, agitated.

‘Mr Holmes?’ Roundhay burst in. ‘Mr Holmes, you have to come with us. This is terrible. Maybe there is a curse, or…’

‘What happened?’

‘It’s Max. I thought I’d pop round to his, see how he was bearing up… He’s dead. Same as his sister. Will you come?’

-x-

Max Tregennis was dead indeed. It had only been a matter of hours since Sherlock and John had interviewed him, and there he was – sitting in the same chair they’d left him in, stone dead. 

John examined the body. ‘Been dead about an hour,’ he said. ‘No blood loss, no puncture marks, no sign of strangulation or asphyxiation…’ John pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing at the sudden sharp pain in his forehead.

‘Headache?’ asked Sherlock.

‘Yep. It’s not a problem.’

‘It could be,’ said Sherlock, ‘since I’ve just come down with one, too. Mr Roundhay? How are you feeling?’

‘Bit faint,’ Roundhay admitted. ‘But, you know. The shock…’

‘Hmm.’ Sherlock sniffed the air. ‘Burnt toast.’

‘Oh my God,’ panicked Roundhay, ‘are we all having a stroke?’

‘No.’ Sherlock limped over to the kitchenette area of the little bungalow’s living room. ‘He really did overdo some toast.’ He pulled a dark brown slice from the toaster and showed them. ‘Never got round to eating it, though.’ He took some cling film, shook all of the crumbs out of the toaster onto it, wrapped them up and put them in his pocket.

‘OK, I think I’m done here.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘You’ve solved it,’ said John, ‘haven’t you?’

Sherlock just smiled. ‘Let’s go and get some paracetamol.’

-x-  
 _  
‘He’s out on bail.’_

_‘What?’_

_‘Gruner. He’s out on bail. They’re keeping his two henchmen, since they’ve both got criminal records for GBH, but Gruner’s currently relaxing at home.’_

_John read over the news for himself, still unable to believe it. ‘Why would they let him out on bail? He’s a dangerous man – he’s a threat!’_

_‘Well, according to a rapidly growing number of anonymous forum posts and blogs, he’s just a broken hearted widower in to making extreme videos, and I’m a masochistic drug addict who gets a sexual thrill from being hurt and humiliated, and freely consented to everything that was filmed.’_

_‘What? Sherlock, I’ve seen that film – they threaten you with mutilation throughout.’_

_‘I know.’_

_‘They break your fingers at the end of it just because they can!’_

_‘Again – I know. I was there.’_

_‘How could anybody possibly think there was anything consensual about that? Where did they get that rubbish from?’_

_‘From some of Janine’s more fanciful tales to the gutter press about me enjoying getting handcuffed and slapped. And of course, thanks to your blog I’ve been romantically linked to a professional Dominatrix for years now.’_

_‘But I specifically said you weren’t in love with Irene Adler, or anything like that.’_

_‘True. So by that, people have extrapolated that is was just about the sex. Since when, they’ve clearly further extrapolated that I’m into far more extreme practices than was suggested before.’_

_‘Oh my God. I’m so sorry.’_

_‘It’s not your fault. You weren’t to know. Not Janine’s fault, either. But I’m starting to get quite a clear idea of how Gruner’s trial is going to go if I can’t persuade any of the rest of his “collection” to take a stand.’_

_‘That still not going well?’_

_‘No, it’s not. Nor are my attempts to find any witnesses to what might have happened to his former wife or Francis Brown. He’s been covering his tracks very well. Terrifying people into silence.’_

_‘Well. One silver lining – Victoria de Merville is no longer due to become the second Mrs Gruner. Those videos were a step too far for her.’_

_‘Well, whoop-de-doo,’ sighed Sherlock. ‘Two people are dead, dozens of others tortured and terrified, but a thoroughly unpleasant heiress has finally seen the light of day. Angela Winter’s worth a hundred Victoria de Mervilles. Speaking of. I’d like you to try to persuade her to get out of London for a little while – preferably leave the country altogether, she has an Aunt in Trinidad she could stay with. I’ve tried, but she’s refusing to abandon her business. Perhaps Mary and the baby should go on a little trip for a while as well.’_

_‘You really think we’re in that much danger?’_

_‘Look what he did to me just for trying to warn off Victoria, John. Look what he did to Angela just for saying no to him. Even without his thugs, he is a violent, vindictive, dangerous man. Mycroft’s just booked our parents on a last-minute cruise – that’s the sort of level of concern we’re looking at, here.’_

_‘DEFCON One?’_

_‘DEFCON One.’_

_John nodded. ‘Right. I’ll get in touch with Angela and Mary right now. What about this place?’_

_‘Mrs Hudson has been persuaded it’s high time she visited her sister.’_

_‘And what about you?’_

_‘I’m in talks with Lestrade. He’s got it into his stupid grey head that he should babysit me personally. I imagine we’ll settle for some dreary Constable guarding me.’_

_‘Well, good. You will be careful, won’t you, Sherlock?’_

_‘You know me,’ Sherlock smiled._

_‘Oh, God,’ John sighed as he left._

-x-

There was only Lestrade at the cottage when Sherlock and John were driven back. He was outside, digging through his coat pocket. He looked up at their arrival, guiltily. 

‘Molly and Mrs Hudson went up to the village to ask around about any suspicious activity near to Max’s house,’ Greg said. ‘Well. Molly did. Mrs Hudson might have just gone sight seeing.’

‘Didn’t fancy doing any detective work yourself?’

‘I’m on holiday!’

‘Well, hang around for a bit – I might need you. There’s just one experiment I have to do to be sure, but I think we might be close to being able to make an arrest.’ Sherlock paused. ‘You can have your cigarette – it’s OK.’

He and John went in.

‘Think I’ll do this in Molly’s makeshift lab upstairs,’ Sherlock said.

‘Need help with the stairs?’

‘No, I’ll be fine.’ Sherlock started awkwardly climbing the staircase by his self. ‘But if you wouldn’t mind hanging around down here? Might need a hand with something. You know.’ He waved his taped-up hand at John. ‘Stupid fingers.’

‘OK.’

John hung around in the kitchen. He put the kettle on, and read a bit more of the book Sherlock had given him. Greg came in, and started making coffee.

He sniffed. ‘Can you smell toast?’

And that was when the screaming began.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, sexual assault and threat of rape in this chapter.

_  
The doorbell rang._

_Sherlock controlled his breath and steadied himself on the armrest of his chair for a moment._

_The doorbell rang again. It rang again and there was nobody else in the building to open it._

_Sherlock took his crutch, and hobbled downstairs._

_It rang a third time as he got to the door._

_‘I’m afraid I’m not taking on any new cases at the momen…’ he managed, opening the latch, before the door was rammed in on him and Gruner pushed through, pepper spray at full blast at Sherlock’s eye level, slamming the door shut again behind him._

_He should have been able to fend something like that off. Should have. Were one leg not all but useless, one arm in a sling and the other desperately flailing to keep hold of his crutch. He knew from the smell and the sensation straight away that it was only pepper spray in his eyes, not acid, but still it burned and he was – albeit temporarily - blinded._

_‘Hello, Mr Holmes,’ said Gruner, ‘thought I’d pay you a visit, since I’m out and about. Shall we take this in your office?’_

_Gruner grabbed Sherlock’s hair and dragged him backwards towards the stairs. He did his best, with his good leg and arm, to aid the climb so that he wasn’t just being dragged by the hair, but he still felt a considerable amount of hair coming away during the painful climb. The crutch was left in the hallway, useless._

_Once in flat B, Sherlock was pulled up on to his feet, turned around and shoved face first against a wall. Gruner pressed against him from behind._

_‘Well, that was fucking stupid, wasn’t it? What do you say?’_

_‘Yes.’_

_Gruner gave Sherlock another shove against the wall. ‘What was that?’_

_‘That was fucking stupid.’_

_‘You should have just let the Watsons kill me and deal with the consequences. I was always going to get out on bail. I’ve got no previous record, and it’s my word against some low life tart and a bored junkie who, according to the records of his previous dalliances, really rather enjoys being slapped about a bit. Honestly, you can take the boy out of the public school, eh? Now. You know that I wouldn’t be here breaking the terms of my bail if I in any way expected you to tell anybody about it, would I? Have you even tried to fight me back, yet? Think you could, in that state? No. Thought not. So what are you thinking? This is going to be another movie?’_

_He pressed hard against Sherlock’s cracked ribs. Sherlock did his best not to make any sound._

_‘No, this is going to be a different movie, Mr Holmes. This is going to be the kind of movie I made with Brown.’_

_‘You murdered him.’_

_‘Fucked, garrotted, dumped in a bath of acid,’ said Gruner. ‘And if you’re very polite to me, I’ll do it in that order for you, too. Might even try the garrotting first, this time.’ He pulled a spool of wire from his pocket. ‘What do you say?’_

_‘I say, you’re not going to get away with this.’_

_‘Mr Holmes, I’ve already got away with this. Twice.’_

_‘Angela and the Watsons are all on high alert. Angela has three big brothers watching her and her studio right now, John and Mary have one another, and they could have killed you last time. And then there’s me. Crippled. Living with only a little old lady. Scared. Of course you were going to come to me to get your revenge. Don’t you think I’d have left? I mean – what am I even doing here, it’s not as if I can work.’_

_Gruner shoved Sherlock again. ‘What the fuck are you whimpering about?’_

_‘I knew they’d let you out on bail. I knew you’d come here. Finding witnesses or evidence for either of your murders has been proving difficult, but it will considerably ease my case now that you’ve confessed.’_

_‘Again, you’re being really quite thick for a supposed genius. The only squealing you’re going to be doing is when you die the way Brown died.’_

_‘I’m afraid that isn’t going to happen,’ Sherlock told him. ‘You see, we’re making a movie.’_

_‘What?’_

_‘This entire building is bugged. Expertly so – I hid some of the cameras myself…’_

_Sherlock recognised the sound of guitar string being unspooled._

_‘Credits now, obviously,’ he shouted out._

_A second later, the door was kicked in downstairs, but the guitar string was already tight around his throat. His good arm was trapped, so he had to grasp at the wire with a broken hand at the end of a sprained arm._

_‘You’re finished, Holmes,’ Gruner shouted as the sound of heavy boots came rushing up the stairs._

_‘No – you’re finished. You’re going to prison for a very long time.’_

_‘But I’ll get out in time. And when I do…’_

_‘Gruner!’ Lestrade and half a dozen armed police burst into the living room. ‘Put your hands where we can see them.’_

_‘We’ve got a date,’ whispered Gruner into Sherlock’s ear, before turning, holding Sherlock in front of him as a human shield. Still holding the guitar wire around his neck with one hand, he grabbed at Sherlock’s crotch with the other. ‘This visible enough for you, Officers?’_

_‘Let him go,’ warned Lestrade. ‘Let him go right now.’_

_‘Or what?’_

_Sherlock threw back his head, hitting Gruner in the nose with it, and grabbed at the hand on his crotch with his own good hand, pulling Gruner’s index finger back hard. Gruner stumbled backwards, crying out in pain. Sherlock fell forwards away from him, grabbed at a table and manage to land reasonably softly on his good knee._

_‘Richard Gruner,’ said Lestrade, ‘I’m arresting you for breaking the conditions of your bail. I should advise you that you’re also currently under investigation for the murders of Abigail Gruner and Francis Brown.’_

_Gruner clutched at his bleeding nose. ‘I’ll get out sooner or later. You remember that, Holmes. Your SAS squad can’t be around all the time.’_

_Lestrade helped Sherlock to his feet as Gruner was ushered out of the door. ‘You all right, mate? Let’s get you your crutch.’ He paused. ‘OK?’_

_‘Yes, I’m fine. Sorry – could you get me a bowl?’_

_Lestrade scooped a large cereal bowl up off the kitchen work surface and handed it to Sherlock just in time for Sherlock to be sick into it._

_‘It’s all right, Sherlock,’ said Lestrade as he heaved up the last of it. ‘It’s all right. It’s over, now. We’ve got him.’_

_-x-_

_‘We’ve lost him.’_

_‘What?’_

_‘I’m sorry, Sherlock.’_

_‘How did you lose him? Where is he?’_

_‘We don’t know. He was left in his cell for the night, when they checked on him the next morning, he was gone. Suspect an inside job. Imagine it’s the sort of thing that would be right up your street actually, if you wanted to investigate…?’_

_‘No.’_

_‘”No”?’_

_‘I can’t work like this, Greg. I’m incapacitated. You find him. You sort this out. You find him for me.’_

_‘You got my name right.’_

_‘Congratulations.’_  
  
-x-

‘Sherlock!’ John and Greg dashed up the stairs to the bedroom where the screaming was coming from. There was a note stuck to the ajar door, reading ‘should experiment take bad turn, turn off Bunsen burner, remove me from the room quickly. DO NOT REMAIN IN ROOM.’

‘What’s he doing?’

They burst into the room. The headache and dizziness hit John straight away. Sherlock had at one point been sitting in a chair a couple of feet away from the dressing table where a lit Bunsen burner was heating a dish, but he had since slithered from it and was now largely on the floor, only partially propped up by the chair. He was shaking violently and screaming in abject terror. John switched off the Bunsen burner swiftly. His vision was starting to blur, as if a dark mist was descending over him. The screaming started to sound as if it were coming from inside his own head.

‘Jesus,’ said Greg, both a couple of feet away and far off in the distance behind a thick wall of glass at the same time, ‘what is this stuff?’

Through the dark furze John saw Greg grab Sherlock under one arm. John took the other and they lifted him together.

Sherlock’s screams found a word – ‘No’. It was drawn out and agonised – a wail – a howl. It stretched out in John’s mind, becoming inhuman for a moment and then suddenly, horribly human again. A scared human. A hurt human. An ultimately very fragile human. That was all Sherlock Holmes was, really. John carried him out of the room, consumed with a terror that if he dropped Sherlock, he would smash into shards of flesh that nobody would be able to fix again. Greg shut the door to the bedroom, muttering ‘monsters, monsters, you stay there, now’ and the struggled with Sherlock down the stairs. Sherlock was screaming blue murder now, writhing to get out of their grip, but the fear of smashing him kept John’s hands around his friend’s arm like a vice. They got him out of the cottage and had to hold him down before he could try to bolt for the cliff.

‘Sherlock, it’s OK,’ said John, his head clearing with every lungful of fresh sea air. ‘It’s us.’

‘Help. Help!’

‘It’s John and Greg. You’re safe.’

‘Somebody help me!’

‘Sherlock.’ John made Sherlock look at him. ‘It’s me.’

A look of recognition clicked in Sherlock’s expression. The mask of terror faded from him face.

‘John.’

‘Yes. It’s me. You found the poison that killed the Tregennises, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you decided to test it on yourself.’

‘I wanted to see what it did. Had to be me - you know the old saying – drug your friend once, shame on you. Drug him twice – really, really shame on you.’ None of them smiled at the joke – not even Sherlock.

‘You know you didn’t have to do that. You’d seen what it does to people.’ John paused. ‘Why did you do it?’

Sherlock’s face crumpled again. ‘Somebody help me.’

‘I’m calling an ambulance,’ said Greg. ‘That stuff’s still in his system.’

‘Somebody help me.’

‘No,’ John said, watching his friend’s expression. ‘This isn’t the poison any more. Something else stuck in his system.’

‘I always get straight back up again,’ said Sherlock, quietly. ‘Why can’t I get back up again?’

‘That book you gave me,’ said John. ‘You said that at the end, there was this secret wall that nobody knew about, deep in a basement, with all this stuff that had been quietly hidden away behind it. Trouble is, with you, you haven’t stopped packing things away behind a secret wall. And that poison just hit it with a sledgehammer.’ He paused. ‘You saw Gruner, didn’t you? When you inhaled that stuff.’

‘I saw lots of things.’ Sherlock held his hand up to his head. ‘There are bad doors in here. Bad doors that got opened.’

‘And secret walls?’

‘And secret walls that got cracked.’

‘And yet, you took that stuff of your own free will. Because you know, Sherlock. You know they’ve got to come down eventually. The damage he did to you wasn’t just physical. You’ve got to face that, Sherlock. You’ve got to let it out of wherever you’ve stored it.’

Sherlock nodded, slowly. He moved his hand down from his head to his mouth, and took in a deep, trembling breath.

He exhaled, and the dam burst.

Greg managed about two minutes of awkwardly, helplessly watching Sherlock sobbing into his hands before announcing he was going back in to air that bedroom and put the kettle on. 

John stayed where he was, freezing on the soggy grass until Sherlock had cried himself out.

‘Better?’ he asked eventually, when Sherlock was sitting quietly, hunched and red eyed.

‘Not really,’ Sherlock replied. ‘Turns out, crying your eyes out with cracked ribs is pretty painful.’

‘I’m going to find you a therapist.’

‘Ugh.’

‘No group stuff, somebody you can talk to one on one. You could see mine, you know. She’s very good.’

‘She’s not that good.’

‘On the other hand, maybe I shouldn’t send you to her. I like her too much to put her through that.’

Lestrade was walking towards them. ‘Tea’s up,’ he said. He handed Sherlock his crutch. ‘Dropped this again.’

‘Lestrade, I’m going to need you to put a call in to the local police to have Dr Sterndale arrested for the murder of Max Tregennis,’ said Sherlock. ‘Not for the other Tregennises, though - that was Max, and I think it might be a bit too late to try to arrest him.’

‘Yeah, all right, let’s get you in first, Mister “I’m Going To Sit On The Cold Wet Grass With No Coat And Cracked Ribs Because I Really Want To Get Pneumonia Apparently”.’ Greg held the door open for them. ‘See? You did need the Cavalry, after all.’

‘Well, how was I to know this was going to turn into a case?’

‘Holiday in the West Country,’ listed Greg, pleased with himself, ‘Hallucinogenic Fear Drugs and a big Black Dog.’ Greg gave Sherlock’s forehead a light tap.

‘If that’s an allusion to depression…’ began Sherlock.

‘He’s not still pretending nothing’s wrong, surely,’ appealed Greg to John.

‘He’s going to see a therapist,’ John said. ‘We’ve agreed.’

Greg nodded. ‘Mine’s very helpful.’

‘You have a therapist?’ Sherlock asked, incredulously.

‘Messy divorce,’ replied Greg, ‘and a stressful job, solving crimes and babysitting a six foot toddler who keeps nearly dying. Now.’ He got out his phone. ‘You’d better tell me all about what happened with the Tregennises.’


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for body horror in this chapter

The poison was in powder form, only dangerous when burned and inhaled – an experimental chemical weapon that Sterndale had smuggled out of Baskerville before he’d left. There was a strong possibility, said Sherlock, that it was linked to the gas they’d encountered at Dewer’s Hollow, albeit far more potent. As they had been bringing Sterndale in from a thwarted attempt to flee the country, Lestrade had had a call from Mycroft Holmes, making it clear that any remaining powder would be confiscated shortly and that nothing was to be asked about its chemical make up or how it had been taken from Baskerville. Further to which, Mycroft had added, when they’d finished with speaking to Sterndale with regards to the trifling matter of Max Tregennis’ death, he would really rather like to have words with him about his reasons for being in possession of said substance and any prospective buyers he may have been in contact with. Sterndale admitted that he’d had a break-in a few weeks before and was concerned that one of his stashes of the substance, which he only ever referred to as ‘The Devil Fuel’, had gone missing. Of course, he couldn’t report this to the police, considering. He’d just hoped that it had been junkies who’d mistaken it for drugs. But then, just after he'd left to go on a business trip, he’d had the terrible phone call from Roundhay, and as he’d sat by the Tregennis’ bedside at the hospital, everything had become clear. It had been Max. Max had shown interest in Sterndale’s work at Baskerville from the start. Sterndale wasn’t sure how he’d heard about the missing Devil’s Fuel – probably online somewhere – but he had put two and two together, broken in and then used it against his own family. He’d put it in a scented candle when nobody had been looking, and made his excuses and left once it had been lit. Revenge for their disowning of him. And, as a further revenge, he’d planned to frame Sterndale. It was cruel, Sterndale said – so very cruel. All he’d ever done to incur the wrath of Max Tregennis had been to adore his sister. She hadn’t even returned Sterndale’s feelings. She’d seen him as a brother. All of the Tregennises, in fact, had seen in David Sterndale everything that they’d wished Max was – every way that Max had disappointed. Perhaps that was why Max had done it. Now, the woman he loved was dead and he could be arrested for her murder. He knew that somebody would find the Devil’s Fuel eventually and trace it back to Baskerville, and to him. So, Sterndale had decided, if he was going down, he may as well do so fighting. He’d visited Max, feigning sympathetic grief, asking to bury the hatchet, since that was what poor Belinda would have wanted. He’d sprinkled some Devil’s Fuel into the toaster while making a show of making the teas. And then, he’d gone home to pack. He’d got as far as Bristol airport by the time the police had caught him.

‘I’m almost sorry we got him,’ said Sherlock, back in the cottage after the drama of the arrest.

‘He did kill a man,’ Mrs Hudson reminded him. 

Sherlock shrugged. ‘Meh.’

Molly had just about finished shredding her findings from examining the last remnants of the Devil Fuel. ‘This destroyed enough for your bloody brother?’ she asked Sherlock, holding up fistfuls of paper linguine.

Sherlock screwed up his nose. ‘Best to burn it, be on the safe side.’

‘Fine,’ she sighed, feeding the paper ribbons into the crackling fire. ‘Can’t believe you took that stuff like an idiot when checking for harmful substances is basically what I’m here for.’

‘That’s not what you’re here for, Molly,’ Sherlock said. ‘Just as Lestrade’s not here for backup and Mrs Hudson’s not here to see Land’s End.’

‘I did give you backup, though,’ said Greg.

‘And I really do want to see Land’s End. Thought we could all go tomorrow. It’s due to stop raining.’

‘You’re here,’ said Sherlock, ‘because my brother believed I was close to a breakdown, and he wanted my support network around me. You’re here because… well, because I enjoy the company of the four of you.’ He looked across at them all, and sighed. ‘Oh God, you’ve all got those faces on again. I hope you’re not expecting a group hug or anything.’

‘Sherlock,’ said Mrs Hudson, ‘that’s terribly sweet.’

‘You’re still an idiot for taking that stuff,’ added Molly.

‘Yes, fine,’ Sherlock said. ‘Oh! Roundhay’s back.’

Roundhay parked up and opened the unlocked front door with a loud ‘Bing bong, Avon calling!’

‘Why can’t he just knock without making a silly noise?’ grumbled Mrs Hudson, quietly.

Roundhay was struggling to carry a bunch of red roses and a large chocolate box. John got up to help him.

‘Feeling romantic, Mr Roundhay?’ asked Sherlock.

‘They’re from the Post Office,’ Roundhay said.

‘Oh, a romantic Post Office!’

‘Sorry I didn’t get them to you sooner, but there’s been all this palaver, hasn’t there? Mrs Wimpole at the Post Office put the roses in water for you, they’re still fine.’

‘They’re for Sherlock?’ John blinked at Sherlock as he got up and limped across to the table where Roundhay had put the presents. ‘Who’d have sent them here? Not Mycroft.’

‘Must be from your Mum,’ said Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock looked at the card attached to the flowers. ‘When did these arrive?’

‘Er. Flowers came yesterday, chocs this morning.’ Roundhay paused. ‘Don’t you like them?’

Sherlock turned to John, concerned. ‘Someone’s been sending red roses to 221b ever since Gruner went missing. Same note, every time.’

John read the note: ‘ _Get well soon, my love. Thinking of you x_ ’

‘Bloody hell. No wonder you’ve upped the security at the flat.’

‘And now he knows I’m here.’

‘”He”? Sure it’s not one of your obsessive stalker girl fans?’ asked Molly. ‘Those women know practically everything about you.’ She paused, looking at the others. ‘Some of them found me online, OK? I just went to their forum to see what they were talking about.’ She paused again. ‘Might have set them right on your shoe size, but that was just because it was bugging me – you’re never a size 13.’

‘This is a he.’ Sherlock picked up the chocolate box, gingerly. ‘Could be Moriarty, but Moriarty still doesn’t make any bloody sense. He died. I saw him die. I almost got spattered with his brains. Besides, it’s more likely that, after our romantic moments in the back of his van and my living room, Gruner is sending me messages that he’s preparing for our third date.’

Sherlock’s phone started to ring.

‘Somebody get that for me would you?’ he asked, still inspecting the outside of the chocolate box. ‘It’s only Mycroft.’

John picked up the phone as Sherlock shook the box, and frowned.

He opened the box and peered inside. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered.

‘What is it?’ Mrs Hudson asked.

‘Sorry. Sherlock?’ John still had the phone to his ear. ‘Mycroft says to turn the telly on. Says it’s happening again.’

Molly turned on the cottage’s little TV.

‘Sherlock,’ said Mrs Hudson, ‘you look like you’ve seen a ghost, do you want to sit down?’

Still clutching the box, Sherlock sank quietly into the chair as the broadcast played. 

The TV automatically switched on to BBC1, which instead of its scheduled programme was showing an old-fashioned test card, except that, instead of noughts and crosses, the girl was now writing ‘DID YOU MISS ME’ on the blackboard.

‘Him, again,’ murmured John.

The image cut to a close up of Gruner. 

‘Pray silence,’ Gruner said over the television, ‘I have a message from the King.’

‘He’s working with Moriarty,’ breathed Sherlock. ‘That’s who got him out of jail. That’s where he’s been. Oh, this just gets better and better.’

‘There has been some confusion, during the King’s absence,’ continued Gruner on the TV. ‘Mistakes have been made, lines have been crossed. Some of the King’s subjects have damaged the King’s property. The King wants to make one rule very clear to you now. Nobody is to mistreat the King’s playthings without his express permission. Nobody is to lay…’

Gruner held up both of his hands – or what was left of them, at least. Only his right index finger was left intact amongst the bloodied, bandaged stumps. Around the television, the group watching gasped in quiet horror.

‘…one finger on Sherlock Holmes without the King’s say-so.’

The group turned to Sherlock, who was watching the screen – pale, unmoving.

‘This has been a recording,’ continued Gruner. ‘The Metropolitan police can find me in a car outside New Scotland Yard now. They’ll find me far more accommodating than I was before, and willing to co-operate with regards to the murders of Abigail Gruner and Francis Brown, and my other crimes. There will be no need to further humiliate any of my surviving victims in court.’

The screen flicked back to the test card. Moriarty’s face had been photoshopped over the girl’s, along with a crown. Now on the blackboard was written ‘DON’T TOUCH MY STUFF’.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Greg, switching off the set. ‘Are you OK, Sherlock?’

‘It’s been Moriarty,’ breathed Sherlock. ‘All this time.’ He opened up the chocolate box and showed them. Nestled amongst the tissue were nine blood encrusted fingers.

Mrs Hudson screamed a little. The others just looked from the contents of the box to Sherlock and one another, ashen.

‘Well,’ said Greg, eventually, ‘at least it means nobody’s going to see you as an easy target any more. Even while you’re still out of action.’

‘No,’ replied Sherlock, closing the box. ‘It just means I’ve gone from being one person’s doll to another’s.’

-x-

He still needed a stick to walk any more than a short distance. Running was possible, but painful and certainly not advised by any of the doctors. His ribs were still sore and his fingers, while unstrapped, were stiff. He was practicing on his violin every day. It was getting better.

There had been four cases in the month since they’d got back from Cornwall. One had turned out to have no deliberate perpetrator, one had no ties to organised crime, and with the other two, the professional criminals had all been very ‘hands-off’ with him. Nobody had attacked him physically, or shot at him or anything. One hadn’t even fought back when he’d tackled him for a citizen’s arrest. Sherlock didn’t like it. He found it rather eerie. He’d been talking about that this morning – after his usual attempts to disconcert his therapist by deducing everything she’d been up to over the past few days had failed to have its desired effect, as ever.

He let himself in, aware straight away that his flat would already be full of people. 

‘Afternoon,’ he said, pushing his flat door open with his stick. 

‘I said they could just come straight up, Sherlock,’ said Mrs Hudson, getting out of his chair. ‘Kettle’s just boiled.’

‘Thanks,’ replied Sherlock. ‘Hello, Mary. Hello, Willamina. John. I take it I’m having Family Tag Team Physio, today?’

‘Her name’s not Willamina,’ Mary reminded Sherlock as he handed him the baby.

‘Can you say “Mummy and Daddy gave me a silly name”, Willamina?’

The baby grinned. The baby always grinned at him.

‘It’s disconcerting how much that child likes you,’ muttered John.

‘She’s a Watson. All Watsons think I’m great.’

‘Yes. Actually, speaking of,’ said Mary, ‘the reason we came over is that we’d like to ask you to…’

‘Mamama,’ said Sherlock to the baby. ‘Mamamamamurder.’

‘Sherlock, would you stop that? If my daughter’s first word is “murder”, I will kill you.’

‘What,’ replied Sherlock, too quietly for Mrs Hudson to hear from the kitchen, ‘again?’

‘Would you two stop joking about that?’ asked John. ‘Sherlock, we’d like you to be Phyllis’ Godfather.’

‘Oh, so you’re getting her Christened after all?’

‘Yeah, well. I pray. Sometimes.’ John cleared his throat. ‘And there’s quite a nice C of E school near to us we’d like her to be able to go to when she’s older.’

‘Oh?’ asked Sherlock, innocently.

‘We already spoke to the Priest about whether it would be a problem, you know, with you not really doing the whole religion thing,’ added Mary, ‘but when we mentioned your name he said it would be all right.’

‘Father Thomas?’ asked Sherlock.

Mary nodded.

‘Oh, yes. He owes me one from way back. Very good.’ He passed the baby back to Mary.

‘Right, then.’ John got his bag of Physio equipment out. ‘Since that’s all sorted, let’s get on with the exercises. How’ve you been feeling, the last few days?’

Sherlock gave him a nod and a smile, and was able to truthfully tell his friend ‘I’ve been all right.’

THE END.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for The Holiday by Scriblit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5427017) by [gurkenpflaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gurkenpflaster/pseuds/gurkenpflaster)




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